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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29600868">His Head is Bloody, but Unbowed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowder_and_pearls/pseuds/gunpowder_and_pearls'>gunpowder_and_pearls</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Jason Todd but mostly whump [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Dick Grayson, Brotherly Bonding, Child Abuse, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Drinking, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd gets his hugs, Jason never jacks the batmobile's tires, Protective Dick Grayson, Tacos, The Joker is fuckin nuts, Tim Drake is Robin, Underage Prostitution, Whump, and still stumbles his way into the batfam, briefly, technically, with what is possibly more hurt than canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:20:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,342</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29600868</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowder_and_pearls/pseuds/gunpowder_and_pearls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason was smart enough to walk away when he saw the Batmobile, all those years ago.  </p><p>He's smart enough to stay out of the hands of the gangs and the mobs. </p><p>He's smart enough to have survived sixteen years in Crime Alley, and still be alive to smoke a celebratory cigarette.</p><p>So why wasn't he smart enough to just keep walking when he sees a crumpled form in an alley?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd, Tim Drake &amp; Jason Todd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Jason Todd but mostly whump [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174127</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>843</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s two days before Christmas and Jason still has to find his mom a present. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Having two day jobs and working the streets at night, looking for a car to jack or a client to reel in with a smile, while simultaneously avoiding any and all Bats that come running across the rooftops, doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for shopping. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason could drop one of his jobs, but with Willis sucking up money for his alcohol and cable, and with his mom spending every penny she can find on drugs, he would never be able to make rent.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He used to want to grow up and go to college. Get a job and make a difference, maybe become a social worker and help the kids that grow up in the same neighborhood that he did. But school took up too much time, valuable time that could be spent collecting cans to turn in for the fifteen dollars or so they would get him, or boosting cars and stealing tires that’ll get him enough money to pay for another couple of days of electricity.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Now, at age sixteen, two years after giving up on his future and focusing on his now, Jason finds himself trudging through the snow at two in the morning, looking for a store that’s still open. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he was younger, he was small enough to look like an elementary schooler. But two semi-steady jobs and a nightime gig of stealing hubcaps gave him enough money for three meals a day. Doesn’t hurt that he’s still pretty enough to get an offer or two every other night. Fifty dollars tends to make the offer worth it. Getting a pimp to keep the worst of them away wasn’t a bad idea either. He shot up like a weed and had to quickly forgo any extra expenses on cigarettes or snacks, instead focusing on buying pants loose enough that he could run in them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He still hasn’t grown into his shoulders but he cuts enough of an imposing figure that anyone he passed doesn’t give him more than a second glance, not willing to attempt a mugging on someone who looks like they could fight back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There is a cheap second-hand store a few blocks away, Jason knows, and his mom doesn’t do well in the cold. This winter is hitting harder than the last, her thinness and general lack of consuming anything other than drugs and the occasional mug of tea is getting to her. He’s hoping to grab her a scarf or a nice pair of gloves for when she decides to leave the apartment, for one reason or another, and he doesn’t want her to have to brave the weather in a thin sweatshirt and a pair of fleece lined leggings, like last year.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason stumbles slightly, the snow covering whatever crack in the pavement that had decided to trip him, and just as he recovers his balance and is about to continue walking, he hears a shuffling from the alley.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Most would say that ‘mama didn’t raise no idiot’ and take off running, not wanting to get caught up in whatever crazy that was ten feet away. Unfortunately for Jason, his mama didn’t raise him at all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He heads into the alleyway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Worst comes to worst, he has to swing his fists a little harder than usual and maybe slam a head or two against a brick wall. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it and it won’t be the last.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The shadows cover any sign of a weapon and he can just barely make out the struggling lump that’s tucked between a dumpster and the building. It’s too dark for Jason to see anything identifying, but then the person cries out after a particularly sudden movement and Jason’s shoulders tense at the youth in their voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a kid.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Someone beat up a kid and then dumped them in the middle of Crime Alley, leaving them to die of either their injuries or the cold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jason hisses to himself. He can’t walk away now, even if someone held a gun to his head. Maybe it’s because there were several times when </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>was the kid crumpled in an alley, unable to move for fear of more pain coming crashing down onto his head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a few steps closer to the now frozen lump, the only sign of life being the quick panting breaths that fill the silence around them, and the tremble in their shoulders. “Hey,” He calls out quietly, risking another shuffle-step when there is no violent or aggressive response. “I’m not gonna hurt ya’.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no response, other than the quieting of frantic inhales and rushed exhales. Jason hopes that the sound of his still-young voice helped ease some of the kid’s fear. “I’m comin’ closer, ‘s that okay? I jus’ wanna see if you’re hurt and if I can help.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the kid responds. Their words are nothing but a push of air, barely making it to Jason’s ears. “Yes,” they whisper. “You can come closer.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason crosses the last few yards between them and pauses, keeping his hands well within sight, even if the kid can’t see him. “Okay, I’m right next to ya. S’it okay if I crouch down and roll ya over? I gotta check if you’re hurt.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a slight shuffle and Jason huffs, pushing off his fear in favor of amusement. “Kid, I need ya to use your voice.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The kid lets out a shaking sigh, as if accepting something inevitable. Jason has a sudden stab of fear, wondering if the kid thinks Jason is planning on hurting him. “Y-Yeah, you can roll me over.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Jason drops to his knees in the snow, wincing as he feels the cold seep through his pants. They were his last pair of clean pants and he couldn’t afford the laundromat until next week. He hopes his mom hasn’t gone on another spending spree in a rare moment of clarity, wanting to clean up their apartment. The last time she’d done that, she’d spent all the grocery money on bleach and new towels.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason had to spend three nights on a street corner to make up the dollars lost.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The kid is wrapped in what looks like a blanket, with tufts of black hair sticking up over the edge of the fabric. His face is half-pressed into the ground and until Jason manages to roll him onto his back, he can't see much of his features, except for the sharp slant of his nose and the baby fat still filling his cheeks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then he flops onto his back under Jason’s guiding hands, and Jason is sucking in a quick breath. He reins in his reflexive urge to scramble back and run in the opposite direction as fast as he can at the sight of the boy’s clothes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Because underneath his seemingly self-made fabric burrito is the red, yellow and green costume of Robin, the hope of Gotham.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuckin’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>christ, ya stupid birdie. How the fuck did you end up in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crime Alley?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jason casts a quick glance at the rooftops and corners of the alley, as if the Batman is about to melt out of the shadows and swoop to Robin’s rescue. “Where’s the big bad Bat, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He scans Robin’s body, eyes counting limbs and fingers, the iron band that had wrapped around his torso easing when he finds the hero whole. Without the immediate threat of Robin bleeding out through a missing hand or arm, Jason begins running his hands lightly over the kid’s back and chest, making sure to keep his touch barely-there and as gentle as he can.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers pause on Robin’s front, and Jason lifts his hands from the hero to find his fingertips coated in red. He spits out a string of swears and presses his palms onto the gash across the kid’s stomach. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason had missed the wound due to the red of the blood blending into the red of Robin’s suit. Blood bubbles up between his fingers and Robin jerks, pulled out of whatever blood-loss induced daze he’d fallen into. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A strangled cry escapes Robin’s mouth and Jason winces, but doesn’t let up on the pressure on the kid’s belly. “Kid, I need ya to contact Batman, okay? Tell ‘im where you are and tell ‘im to hurry the hell up.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t get a response and Jason swears again. He lifts a hand, ignoring the liquid that starts to run down his arm, and starts to search for a comm or button or </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>to bring backup running. Jason shifts his second hand to cover the kid’s wound more as he fumbles at his ear. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It takes too many tries, takes up time that Robin might not have, if his pale skin and limp body is any indication, but Jason finally manages to wrench whatever comm Robin has from his ear and secure it on his own. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <em>
    <span>“Robin, status update.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason’s breath catches in his throat at the gruff sound of the legendary vigilante’s voice. Crime Alley both worships and hates the Batman. The vigilante rips gangs apart, sending them to prison and away from the turf they’d been killing for, but everyone knows the justice system is corrupt, even more so than the electoral system. They’ll be back within weeks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>People who are out looting or stealing are arrested and jailed, but without thousands of dollars in bribes, they get to stay sitting in a tiny cell for the crime of trying to feed themselves and their families. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Robin, report!” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The franticness in the Dark Knight’s tone jerks Jason back into action. He prays that there isn’t some kind of button he has to push to activate and leans more of his weight onto Robin as he responds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Robin is down. Do you have a tracker on him or do I gotta tell ya where we are?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s silence over the line for a moment and Jason opens his mouth, preparing to ask if the comms are broken or if Batman is still there, when the vigilante responds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“What have you done to him?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The Dark Knight’s voice is cutting and cold, the sound of stone on stone. It sends shivers through Jason. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“If you’ve hurt him…” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He trails off, as if unable to find the words to describe just how broken Jason’s body will be. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason rolls his eyes, knowing that if Batman had been there he wouldn’t have been doing anything but staring at the ground or over the vigilante’s head. Batman might be the one who takes down the bad guys, who gives the robbers over to the police, but he’s also the one who went on a three week rampage through Gotham City after Robin got shot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>More hospitals were filled in one night than in a week without any Joker massacres. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Someone who beats up criminals on a daily basis is not someone who’s miniature sidekick should be messed with. Especially if said miniature sidekick is a kid. Jason doesn’t expect the Joker to know better, the psycho is more cracked than a guy who dresses up like a bat to run around on rooftops at night. Jason would like to think that the more sane nutjobs filling the city would have a bit more sense than someone who murders hundreds of people every month, but apparently that is a little too much to ask of in Gotham.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Listen, I didn’ do jack</span>
  <em>
    <span>shit </span>
  </em>
  <span>to Robin. People who hurt kids deserve to get dumped in the bay tied to sandbags.” He pauses to shift his grip on the sidekick in front of him, his hands too slippery to do much until he wipes them off on his pants and covers the gash again. “Robin’s got a six-inch gash down the front of ‘im and I’m holdin’ it closed. Ya coming for pick-up or not?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There isn’t so much as an exhale over the comm in his ear and Jason fidgets, shoulders tensing with every second that passes. They’re sitting ducks in this alley. He’s a pretty good fighter, after so many years of dodging his dad’s swings and scrapping in the shadows over the contents of a wallet, but if he lets go of Robin, there is no way the kid will make it. Not with the amount of blood that has leaked over Jason’s fingers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you fuckin’ turned off your earpiece-” The fact that he’s threatening the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Batman </span>
  </em>
  <span>makes Jason want to want to both laugh until he cries and run until he’s in a place that’s never even </span>
  <em>
    <span>heard </span>
  </em>
  <span>of Gotham. “-I swear to god, I’ll fuckin’ hunt ya down myself, you-” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That won’t be necessary.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> The response echoes oddly through in Jason’s ears and he flinches. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He just became a bigger nutjob than the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Joker</span>
  </em>
  <span>. With adrenaline running through him, he somehow decided to threaten the most terrifying person in the entirety of Gotham, which says something, given that the city is absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>full </span>
  </em>
  <span>of crazies, and now said terrifying person is right behind him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason stays frozen, all of his instincts screaming </span>
  <em>
    <span>run-hide-fight-scream </span>
  </em>
  <span>as his neck prickles from the gaze he’s sure is resting on him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s movement in the corner of his eye and despite all of his attempts to remain still, he still leans away from the Batman when the man drops into a crouch next to him. A pair of gloved hands take Jason’s place, stopping the blood from flowing as fast as it had when Jason had been attempting to hold it back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Batman lifts one hand and pulls something from his belt, unfolding it as he moves. It’s a massive gauze pad, and the man presses it firmly onto Robin’s wound as he begins to cut away the edges of the kid’s costume. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It only takes him a moment to secure tape on the edges of the bandage and between one blink and the next, Robin has been scooped into Batman’s arms. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man begins to walk away, boots barely making any sound even in the ankle high snow, and then pauses. He turns back to Jason, a looseness in his shoulders that unnerves Jason more than he will admit. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Relaxed’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn’t a word you’d usually use to describe Gotham’s Knight, and seeing the obvious relief on someone who isn’t even believed to be entirely human makes Jason’s hands twitch, adrenaline rushing through him without an outlet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says, voice gruff. “Not everyone would’ve stopped.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason shrugs, hands still sticky with Robin’s blood. “S’not a big deal.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Batman opens his mouth, eyes locked on Jason, and then after a moment closes it. He nods sharply and turns, melting into the shadows as quickly as he came, not even the traffic-light hues of the Robin costume visible as he disappears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason stands in the snow for a long moment, the wet patches on his knees becoming more uncomfortable with each second that passes. He huffs and raises a hand to run it over his face, his exhaustion hitting him all at once as any shreds of energy he had left dies away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then he freezes at the sight of his still-dripping hand and swears. It’s going to take him way too long to clean the blood out from underneath his fingernails.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason has never wanted anything to do with the Bats. Trouble followed them wherever they went. Once, when he was around twelve, one of his friends had called him about some Porsche just left in an alley, basically gift wrapped for anyone walking by. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It had been a set-up, his friend likely wanting to have more territory for himself, and had sent Jason in the direction of the Batmobile. Jason understood. It was a matter of feeding your family or not, and if getting one kid sent for juvie for a few months was what you had to do, then it was worth it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Just because Jason understood doesn’t mean Max didn’t end up with a broken nose and a snapped wrist in retaliation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason hadn’t touched the car, had taken off running and hadn’t looked back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His most recent run-in with the Bats is not something he wants to repeat. He can’t risk extra attention being drawn to him, either by the gangs or the pigs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If the gangs notice him then he’ll inevitably end up either murdered or recruited. If the pigs notice him and aren’t happy with what little information he has, he’ll end up sold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The elite -</span>
  <em>
    <span>the idiot ones</span>
  </em>
  <span>- seem to think that the gangs are the worst part of Crime Alley, that you’ll end up brutally raped and then kept, for whenever they want you. The reality is that it’s easier to hurt someone while they’re sitting there in handcuffs and their word means less than yours in court.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason will always choose a gang over the back of a police car. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At least some of the gangs have lines they won’t cross.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been doing his best to avoid even the </span>
  <em>
    <span>mention </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the Bats. People might be aware that Batman is human -</span>
  <em>
    <span>or closer to human than monster</span>
  </em>
  <span>- but after legends and tall tales of Batman falling ten stories and getting up without a scratch, or Robin somehow jumping from the ground to a fourth floor fire escape, superstition builds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason finds himself looking over his shoulder almost constantly, as if the Dark Knight was suddenly going to appear behind him and drag him into the shadows. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, avoidance is only helpful when those that you are trying to avoid don’t have access  to every camera across Gotham. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason has a very tight schedule. He gets up at six and heads to his job at the Denny’s. Upon arrival, he washes and dries dishes for three hours, takes a fifteen minute break, and then spends another three hours at the sink. Once his shift is over, he catches the bus to the library. He has to run from the diner to the bus stop, otherwise he has to wait for a second bus, making him twenty minutes late for his second job. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He works at the library until eight, reshelving books and steering mumbling children in the direction of whatever story they are hoping to find. Somewhere within those seven hours, he eats whatever food he was able to snag from his first job for lunch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After he waves good-bye to his fellow librarian assistant -</span>
  <em>
    <span>Marilyn</span>
  </em>
  <span>- he makes his way down to the taco truck at the corner of 17th and Roseway. The woman who runs it seems to have taken a liking to Jason, and each time he comes around he ends up with an extra bag of chips or a little bit too much carne and guacamole. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Which is where he finds himself now, clambering up a fire escape to get to a rooftop nearby. It’s hard to find a quiet place to relax in, especially if you’re looking for a place that you can avoid getting mugged at. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason had scoped out this rooftop, making sure that the only realistic access point to it was the rusted and nearly unusable fire escape. It’s a place where he can rest and know that he is safe from the gangs who will pull a trigger over any perceived threat and the cops that do the same. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s already dark out, the Gotham winter having sent the sun sprinting for the horizon line hours ago, and Jason tips his head back to stare at the sky. He knows that he won’t be able to see stars, even when it’s not snowing. The sky is always filled with too much smog to see more than the occasional airplane flying through the air. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a flicker of color in the corner of his eye and he jolts, nearly dropping his bag of tacos as he turns, reflexively scrambling away from whatever had moved. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Or, he realizes as he takes in the sight beside him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>whoever</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Robin is crouched next to the spot where Jason had just been sitting, and beside him is another vigilante, this one decked out in black and electric blue instead of the well-recognizable traffic light set or black. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The kid looks even younger than he did huddled in that alleyway, hair wind tousled and cheeks red. Jason takes a moment to think about what kind of person lets someone so young run around punching criminals because he barely looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>twelve.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry,” the vigilante says, shifting slightly towards Jason’s still-sprawled form. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason opens his mouth to respond, to say that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s fine </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck off</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but what comes out instead is- “Are you? The hell you doin’ out here? Last time I saw ya, you were five minutes from bein’ six feet under.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Robin ducks his head. The man behind him -</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nightwing! That was his name</span>
  </em>
  <span>- plops into a criss-cross, leaning back on his hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I- uh. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Robin twists his hands, the nervousness in his posture at odds with the smile that has begun to tug at the edges of his lips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason finally sits up, knees bent in front of him. He holds his tacos protectively in his lap. “You searched the whole city so ya could talk t’me about me holdin’ you closed ‘til the Bat could get there?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well- no.” Robin smiles a little wider. “I wanted to thank you for what you did. Not everyone would’ve done that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason shakes his head, preparing to dismiss the thanks and then get on with his life, hopefully far </span>
  <em>
    <span>far </span>
  </em>
  <span>away from any other Bats, but Nightwing interrupts him before he can even begin to speak. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Really. Thank you.” Jason flushes, shifting awkwardly. Nightwing grins. “We wanted to thank you but we </span>
  <em>
    <span>also….</span>
  </em>
  <span>” The vigilante draws out the vowels in the last word. “Wanted to offer you a favor.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A favor.” Jason’s voice is steady, the shaking in his hands not mimicked in his words, but his mind is going a million miles a second. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A favor? What does that even mean? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He can’t be sure if he can trust the Bats to not go turning him in the moment they catch him boosting a car or slipping a wallet from someone else’s pocket. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>How would he even call in the favor? Just go stand next to the Bat signal and wait, hoping that one of the more colorful vigilantes catches sight of him? Thanks, but no thanks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” Robin leans forward, one hand fumbling at one of the many pouches on his belt. He extends his hand towards Jason, a small device held between his fingers. After a moment of hesitation, Jason lets the superhero drop it into his waiting hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it?” He turns it over in his palm, examining all sides, squinting against the fading light to try to see details. His bag of food has since been moved to the roof next to him and he takes care not to crush it as he settles back onto the ground, pulling away from Robin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nightwing shifts, uncrossing his legs and then crossing them again, this time opposite from how he’d been sitting earlier. “It’s a panic button.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason glances up, an eyebrow raised. “You givin’ me a </span>
  <em>
    <span>panic </span>
  </em>
  <span>button?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not just for panic.” Robin smiles slightly. “It’s got a tracker that’s activated when you push that blue button. We’ll get a notification and know that you’re calling for us.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Push the button?” Jason narrows his eyes. “What if I push it accidentally?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Robin’s grin widens. “That’s the thing,” he says, pride clear in his tone. “I made it so that you have to push the button three times in a row before we get a notification that you signalled us. The clicks have to be less than two seconds apart or we won’t get a signal.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason nods slowly. Having a tracker on his location at all times- </span>
  <em>
    <span>it’s not like he’s gonna actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>believe </span>
  <em>
    <span>them when they say it’s not activated yet</span>
  </em>
  <span> -isn’t something he wants. He’s not even sure he trusts them to show up if he tries to signal them. But to turn down a gift from Robin and Nightwing, and by extension </span>
  <em>
    <span>Batman? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’d have to be more stupid than he already is to do that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says, making sure to make eye contact with both vigilantes. “This is really generous.” He’s not sure how to thank them- </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s never had to thank anyone for a tracker before </span>
  </em>
  <span>-but he does his best.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Robin nods and opens his mouth to say something, but Nightwing pulls himself to his feet, bringing the smaller superhero with him. “Thank you for helping…” He trails off, an eyebrow raised and a smile pointed in Jason’s direction.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jason,” he says, still reeling from the gift and subsequent conversation. The realization that he just had a </span>
  <em>
    <span>conversation </span>
  </em>
  <span>with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Robin </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nightwing </span>
  </em>
  <span>has just begun to hit him. His hands are starting to shake. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jason,” Nightwing echoes and nods. “Thanks, Jason.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And then they’re gone, disappearing just as quickly as their mentor did, Jason’s last glance of them being a jaunty wave from Robin. He stares at the place they’d been just a moment ago. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The device in his hand seems to be getting heavier by the second. Jason glances down at it and rolls it around in his palm. He takes a few quick steps towards the edge of the roof and glances to the street below, bouncing the tracker in his hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason’s not sure if it’ll break from the fall and he can’t risk some crazy picking it up and taking it apart. Everyone knows that Bat tech is better than anything you could get on the black market or elsewhere. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pockets the panic button and prays that he’ll never have to use it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The past few weeks have had enough interaction with the Bats for a lifetime or two. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason scoops up his bag of tacos, suddenly nauseated by the smell of hot carne and rice. He stuffs one of his shaking hands into his hoodie pocket, hoping that the trembling stops soon, and makes his way to the fire escape. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The rooftop doesn’t feel safe anymore. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was his bubble of safety, a space where he knew he couldn’t be bothered. That calm has been disrupted, and he can feel a ripple of anxiety start to spread through him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason needs a cigarette. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He clambers over the edge of the roof and drops onto the top level of the fire escape, the rusted structure creaking beneath his weight. It’s quick work to get down to the street and soon enough the familiar sound of broken glass and gravel crunching underneath his shoes fills his ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason surveys the rooftops and the pockets of shadow that surround him as he walks, eating his food on autopilot. It’s instinct, now, to eat any food he can get his hands on. The memories of not knowing if he would get to eat every day fill his head. In Crime Alley, everyone’s just one misstep away from homelessness or starvation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason is no different.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a long walk home.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His mom doesn’t believe in God, but sometimes when he was younger she’d drag him to the church down on 4th street and they’d pray.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Pray for what, he doesn’t know. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason faintly remembers going there around Christmas, silver tinsel and fake mistletoes decorating the doorways and windows, and just sitting in one of the pews, hands clasped in his lap as his mother muttered under her breath.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks that she might’ve been praying in an attempt to find something other than drugs to carry her through life. It never worked.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason has never believed that there was something greater out there, that there was someone who watched over everyone on the planet. That there was someone who created them, who loved them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There can’t be, not with Jason’s luck.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The worst of the cold weather had passed a few weeks ago, and Jason welcomes the warmer breezes that begin to fill his nights. He’s found himself standing on a street corner more often than not but he can’t find it within himself to try very hard to find another job, not with how much money he’s raking in nightly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight has been particularly successful, with Jason only having to go with two different men before his wallet was full enough for him to head home. The overtime at the library certainly wasn’t unhelpful in the way of paying the bills. Jason had even managed to grab a sandwich from one of the few delis in Crime Alley on his way back to his apartment.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason meanders his way down winding streets and short-cuts through alleyways, wanting nothing more than to drop his exhaustion-heavy head onto his pillow and pass out for a few hours. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The only place he wants to be right now is at home, on his bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that is where everything goes wrong, even if Jason doesn’t know it yet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It takes him nearly half an hour to get home and up the three flights of stairs to the door of his apartment, compared to his usual twenty minutes. He pauses in the hallway for a moment, just as he does every time he comes home late, and listens. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s only the faint sound of the television, playing an old football or basketball game. There’s no murmur of voices, no shouting or slamming of doors and cupboards. Willis is likely passed out on the couch, surrounded by the bottles of whatever drink he bought with Jason’s money, and Catherine is either asleep or too high to know where she is, holed up in the bathroom or bedroom.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He unlocks the door and pushes it open as quietly as possible, taking care to avoid the squeaky boards at the entrance as he steps inside. Sure enough, Willis is sprawled across the couch, the coffee table covered in various cans and bottles. Jason lets out a sigh and begins to gather them up, carrying them armful by armful to the recycling bin he put under the sink.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>By the time he’s done cleaning up and he’s made sure the kitchen is back to how it had been before he left this morning, it’s nearly three hours past midnight and his eyes are burning.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason stumbles down the short hallway from the kitchen to his bedroom, not taking more than a second to drop his shoes next to the doorway, and collapses onto his bed. It’s been too long since the last time he went to sleep with a full stomach and no new bruises to add to his constant collection. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He lets his too-loud thoughts fade into silence and slips into the welcoming darkness that is sleep. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason wakes up quickly, which isn’t necessarily unusual but isn’t appreciated either. Sunlight has only just begun to filter through his blinds, the ever-present clouds that blanket Gotham making it too dim to be useful this early. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At first, he’s not sure why he woke up. His alarm is set for six and a quick glance at his clock tells him he has more than an hour left of sleep waiting for him. Then the hallway creaks outside of Jason’s room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason is up and ready within seconds, shaking the fogginess from his mind as he positions himself with his back to his window, legs set in a defensive stance and hands slightly raised. There is nothing but panic blaring in his head and no matter how hard he tries to calm down, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the only sound that he can hear is blood rushing in his ears.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His mom barely moves around their apartment, a wraith compared to heavy-footed Willis. The person outside his room isn’t either of them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s another creak in the hallway and Jason tightens his hands into fists. He’d rather go down with a fight than not fight at all, especially if this is someone looking to rob their shoebox apartment. It might be a piece of crap, but it’s better than what more than half of the Alley’s residents can get. The doorknob starts to turn. He shuffles to the right a little, hoping that he’ll be blocked from view for a moment by the door. If he has a few extra seconds, maybe he can get the upper hand before anything happens. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His mind flashes to the panic button Robin gave him. It’s in his jacket, securely zipped into an inside pocket. And his jacket is crumpled on the ground next to his shoes. Which are sitting right next to his bedroom door. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s an idiot. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And he is so fucked if whoever is in there apartment has any weapon other than their fists. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The door starts to swing open and Jason stiffens as a man steps into the room, not bothering to close it behind him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The fuck are you?” Jason asks, narrowing his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He moves a few feet closer and Jason takes a step back, now nearly pressed up against his wall. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The older man grins. “Hey now,” He says, eyes running up and down Jason. “No need for that. I ain’t gonna hurt you or nothin’.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason can feel his chest start to tighten in anticipation. He resets his feet slightly, leaning forward to compensate for the unbalance that comes with the trembling beginning to overtake him. He can’t be sure what this guy wants, but it’s all too easy to connect the dots to form an ugly picture.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you ain’t gonna hurt me then you can just turn around an’ walk away.” Jason tries to force as much anger into his voice as he can, knowing that this is his only chance to get the guy to leave. He’s grown a lot over the past few years but he’s still smaller than he should be. The man in front of him is more than a few inches taller and likely has fifty or so pounds on him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason glances around the older man, gaze flickering for the doorway for half a moment, hoping that maybe his dad woke up or his mom will interrupt. His second of distraction is all the guy needs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a burst of movement as the man surges forward. Jason throws himself back, trying to dodge, but only succeeds in slamming himself against the windowsill. He wheezes, the breath knocked out of him, and then gasps at the pain shooting up his back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The older man grabs him around the waist and shoulders, throwing Jason onto his bed. Jason bucks in his grip, still gasping soundlessly as he struggled to suck air back into his lungs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A chuckle sounds above him and Jason finds himself pinned, wrists held down on the pillow above his head. His chest is heaving and he snarls, baring his teeth at the man straddling him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>off of me!” Jason says, twisting his wrists desperately in an effort to break the man’s hold. His throat is tightening in fear and the pounding in his ears is beginning to match the thundering beat of his heart in his chest. There’s a stinging in his eyes that he pushes back almost desperately. Aggressive clients tend to take tears as permission, as giving in, and Jason uses that knowledge, uses the memories crowding his head, to force his face to remain tearless. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” the older man says, leaning down, face only a few inches from Jason’s. “I think I’ve seen ya down on the corner of 5th an’ Avery. Ya do this all the time, why’s this so different?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason tenses. If the guy knows where he works, there’s nothing stopping him from driving by and dragging Jason into his car. Sure, some of the other working boys and girls might help him if he says no, if he fights back, but then they might get too beat up to work for the rest of the night. The money they could lose pays for their bills, their groceries and rent. He can’t do that to them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not like Mr Sullivan will do much to help him either. His pimp is decent, especially in comparison to some of the others he’s heard about. He takes a cut of Jason’s earnings, of course, but never more than thirty percent. He gives protection against rougher clients, makes sure his working girls and boys have enough food in their stomachs to last the night.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But the man above him would probably be able to convince Mr Sullivan to let him have Jason for an hour or two. Money always speaks more than basic morals. He’s going to have to move, ask for a new spot in the neighborhood. Maybe he can make up some lie about a shitty ex or a drug dealer who was a little too aggressive.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But no matter what he ends up doing, no matter how safe he manages to make his nights out on the street, he still has to get through now. Still has to make it out of his bedroom more alive than dead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The grip on his wrists tightens. Jason stays frozen for a moment, letting the man think he’s given up, that he’s accepted the inevitable. It works. The older man laughs from above the teenager, a smile on his face. “You know your place. Don’t pretend like-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s cut off as Jason surges into movement, slamming his face into the man’s as hard as he can. The angle’s wrong, less effective than a headbutt or a punch, but the man reels back, hands clutching at his nose and swears spilling from his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason scrambles off the bed and throws himself at the man, pulling back and slamming his fist over and over </span>
  <em>
    <span>and over </span>
  </em>
  <span>into his face, his stomach, until the older man isn’t fighting anymore, until </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>the one helpless-pinned-</span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When it’s over and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>rage-fear</span>
  </em>
  <span> that filled his head has been replaced by static, Jason moves back. He keeps half of his focus on the crumpled form of the man on his floor as he pulls on his boots, yanking his jacket on more violently than needed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a warmth running down his face and when he raises his hand, brushes his fingers across his chin and lowers them, he finds his fingertips bloody. It takes him too long to notice the throbbing above his eye.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His hands are shaking and he has to make several attempts at grabbing a discarded shirt before he manages to keep a tight grip on it, and holds it to the cut. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The blood doesn’t stop coming but it has slowed down, and Jason drops the shirt on the floor. He shoots a glance at the older man, still curled up against the wall, then looks to the open door of his bedroom. Neither of his parents noticed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe they weren’t awake. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason wonders how the man even got into the apartment. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s probably Mom’s newest dealer</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders if she sold him again, just for another milligram of heroin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason stuffs his phone and wallet into his pockets and pulls up the hood on his hoodie. Opening the window and slipping out onto the fire escape takes only a moment, and by the time Jason hears a groan come from his room, the man beginning to move, Jason is already sprinting down the street and disappearing around the corner. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The cut has stopped bleeding and the blood on his face has caked into a sticky mess. His nose is throbbing from his improvised headbutt and the muscles in his wrists are aching in a way that tells him they’ll be ringed with bruises within the hour. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason stops in an alleyway, shoulders heaving as he breathes through the panic and shame that’s beginning to choke him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If he’d fought harder, none of that would’ve ever happened. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He gags and then throws up, bending over to avoid any of the mess landing on his shoes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A sob tears its way out of his throat and he spits out the bile that comes with it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He should’ve never gone home. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No one outside of the Alley seems to really understand how the streets work. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sure, they might know the basic rules. They might know to not refuse a job offer from the head of a gang, they might know to never be a drug runner for the Black Mask. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They might even know that sometimes you just have to take what you get, whether that means scrounging for a sandwich in the trash behind a deli or wearing the same pair of beat-up shoes until the soles fall off. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But they never seem to understand just what </span>
  <em>
    <span>it means </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be a kid in Crime Alley. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a system in place among the street kids.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You see someone taking a beating, you walk away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You see someone overdose, you drag them to the free clinic that’s located right on the edge of the Alley. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>You see someone throwing up in an alleyway, beat to shit and terrified, you offer them a cigarette and a clean bit of sidewalk to sit down on for a while. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason had finished his cigarette hours ago, and now has somehow found himself roped into playing slapjack with a group of kids who apparently all stuck together, like a pack. The leader of their little group, Maggie, is the oldest, at one year past Jason’s sixteen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She keeps the other three in line, checking in with them to make sure there were no new cuts or bruises and making them keep their noses out of Jason’s business. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After somehow losing for the third time in a row to a twelve year old, Jason calls it quits. The game has to be rigged anyhow, there’s no way in </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>that a twelve year old who still hasn’t lost all their baby teeth is able to </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely destroy </span>
  </em>
  <span>him in a card game that Jason’s been playing since he was six years old. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus,” he says when Jackson somehow manages to slip his hand under Jason’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>again. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The twelve year old grins at him, all gap-toothed smile and baby fat filled cheeks. “That just ain’t fair. You gotta be countin’ cards or </span>
  <em>
    <span>somethin’</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jackson laughs, and Jason catches the approving look Maggie shoots him from the corner of his eye. She’s busy making sure the younger two kids, both aged nine, aren’t about to start shuffling through the cards to find the jacks while Jason is distracted. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah,” Jackson says, and scrubs a sleeved wrist absentmindedly across his face. It does nothing for the dirt he’s got smeared across one cheek and the bridge of his nose. “It ain’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>rigged </span>
  </em>
  <span>or anythin’. You just suck real bad at slapjack. It ain’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>fault.” He says the last sentence with a wiggle of his eyebrows, and Jason rolls his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, kid.” But his tone is joking and Jackson grins. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason glances at Maggie, who has somehow distracted the two younger kids by pulling out what looked to be a pieced together Go Fish card set and left them to play with it. She catches him looking and raises an eyebrow in question. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I- uh.” He looks to Jackson for a moment, who is watching him with a look on his face that screams </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t leave</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I better get goin’ now. I’ve got a job to get to.” That’s a lie but they don’t need to know that. The diner doesn’t open on Saturdays until noon. “Thanks for the smoke and the game.” He has to start moving or he’ll shake out of his skin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maggie smiles in response and he knows she understands the restlessness that is filling him. “See ya around.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason nods at her and then at Jackson. “See ya.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He leaves with a wave over his shoulder and a half smile in their direction. There’s a bus stop a few blocks away that will take him exactly where he needs to go, and luckily, the price on the bus ticket is low enough that he’ll only have to forgo one meal in compensation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a forty minute drive to the other side of the city, all the way to the warehouses and the docks. It’s worth every minute of it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason finds bus rides almost hypnotizing in their tranquility. He gets to sit, or stand if there’s no free seats, and lose focus on the world around him. Forty minutes, once a week, he gets to space out and not worry about groceries or bills. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Most of the people who can afford to take the bus tend to be from outside Crime Alley, so Jason doesn’t get bothered by anyone around him. Jason knows that he wouldn’t be able to drop his guard so low if the bus fare was cheaper.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He figured out pretty quickly, after only a few bus rides, that to people outside of the Alley and the Narrows, Jason looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>dangerous</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The perpetual scowl Jason keeps on his face almost unconsciously, paired with the scars on his temple and running through one of his brows, serves to drive away any would-be pickpockets or assholes who want to feel tough. The constant bruises on his knuckles don’t do much harm either.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The bus ride is as uneventful as always, only interrupted about twenty minutes in by one of the passengers who’d obviously had far too much to drink for a Saturday morning. They’d thrown up what looked to be a plate of sushi and about ten million drinks out the window. Thankfully, they got off at the next stop.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason gets off at the same place he always does. There’s a bus stop right in front of a café that serves the best coffee he’s ever dranken, and he makes sure to swing by every time for a bagel or a hot cup of </span>
  <em>
    <span>just-about-anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tea is the cheapest thing there, and Jason finds himself making his way down the street with a to-go cup of steaming earl grey in his hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He isn’t able to find a lot of time to do things that he wants to do, what with work and recovering from various injuries sustained while working. Five months or so ago, Jason was wandering around the city, pockets too empty to head home, when he stumbled across a building that would quickly become part of a weekly tradition of his. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once a week, Jason parks his ass on the floor of this bookstore, a book or two in his hands, and reads until they start to shut off the lights or he has to head to one of his jobs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Last trip he was about halfway through </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pride and Prejudice </span>
  </em>
  <span>when the owner had started to lock up. Hopefully, he’ll have enough time to finish it before he has to head to the diner for another shift or two of being up to his elbows in soap suds and dirty dishes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The owner of the store seems to like him, and whenever Jason manages to find the time to spend most of the night or late afternoon there, he notices the shop seems to close much later than usual. He doesn’t want to say thank you, doesn’t want to draw attention to the inconsistent closing time, not if the owner is just losing track of the hour. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Walking to the bookstore from the café only takes a few moments and Jason fills the time with checking and double checking the panic button he’d been gifted is still in his pocket. He doesn’t think he’ll ever use it, and he doesn’t trust that the two vigilantes will come running at his call, but he doesn’t want to lose it. Jason isn’t so stupid that he thhinks he’ll never need to call for help. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This is Gotham, filled with some of the craziest people alive. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, Jason will get caught up in an elaborate plan of one super villain or another. It’s just a matter of how much time he’s got before that happens.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He plans to fill at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>of that time with quality literature. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The bell dings when Jason pushes the door to the bookstore open, and Jason ducks his head slightly, a tiny involuntary smile appearing on his face at the bright sound. The woman behind the counter waves at him, now used to his random appearances, and goes back to the book in her hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason winds his way through the towering bookshelves, each one stuffed so full he wouldn’t be surprised if they toppled at the weight of one more book. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first time he came here, he was quick to find a spot where he can remain unseen by anyone who works there, while at the same time having enough light to read. His solution was a nook, right between two bookshelves and across from a window that gives him a view of the street. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, it became his own unofficial spot, and he found himself sitting in the same place each time he paid the bookstore a visit. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It only takes seconds for him to settle himself into his spot, and only a few more to deposit his tea beneath his bent knees and rest the book in his lap. Reading tends to suck the hours away, so Jason prays he’ll glance at the clock in time to not miss his bus. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Usually, he wouldn’t risk being late to the diner, not with the chance of getting fired. The last twenty-four hours have been some of the hardest he’s lived through in the past year. He deserves a break, even if that break is reading for an hour every Saturday. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He gets lost in the book, gets lost in the dance that Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy perform between the pages. By the time he looks up, two hours have gone by and he is officially late for his dishwashing duties. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason’s heart jumps to his throat as his eyes lock onto the clock that ticks away in front of him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He is so fucked. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He abandons his tea and book where he sits and takes off, barely pausing to open the door before he is sprinting down the sidewalk, wishing and hoping and praying to whatever deaf god is out there, that he somehow keeps his job. That Mrs Mancini is in a good mood today, that he is convincing enough to not get fired, that the bus in on time and he doesn’t have to wait twenty minutes for the next one. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His hands shake with adrenaline as he pays the bus fare and takes an aisle seat, the chair next to him empty. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The twenty block drive is longer than anything he’s ever experienced. Running from the stop he gets off at to the back of the diner doesn’t do him any good. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason loses his job within five minutes of talking to Mrs Mancini. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He almost throws up in the food scraps trashcan when she hands him a handful of cash, his last paycheck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Instead he stuffs the wad of bills into his pocket, gives Mrs Mancini a nod and another apology, and makes his way back to the sidewalk. Gotham’s streets are a little more crowded than he is used to, but most of the time he’s in this part of the city, he spends it in the back of the diner he just got fired from. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason stumbles back to Crime Alley, thoughts barely focusing on the concrete beneath his feet as muscle memory steers him in the right direction. He’s vaguely aware of the foot traffic thinning out, crowds lessening as he moves further and further into what most of Gotham has christened ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>a lost cause’</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Between one moment and the next, Jason finds himself climbing a familiar fire escape, the rusted metal biting into his hands as he pulls himself upward. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The money in his pocket feels insubstantial, barely there, in comparison to the wave of worry growing in his mind. Eventually, the crest is going to come crashing down. Jason hopes by the time that happens, he’ll have figured out some sort of dam, some sort of blockage, to keep the wave away from him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cigarettes seem to have done the trick so far, at least in his experience, and Jason mentally subtracts a few dollars from his paycheck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason’s boots hit the dirty cement of the roof and he sinks to the ground almost immediately. He presses his back to the too-small wall that someone must’ve thought would deter jumpers, and pulls his knees almost completely to his chest. He digs his nails into his legs almost desperately, the tiny bursts of pain serving as an anchor in his whirlwind of thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know where else he can get a job.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Minimum wage pay is something he’s seen people pull a trigger for.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason doesn’t have </span>
  <em>
    <span>time </span>
  </em>
  <span>for job hunting. Rent is due at the end of next week.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With Mom still neck deep in heroin and Willis constantly trying to drown himself in bottles of beer, Jason can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>afford </span>
  </em>
  <span>the bills. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He only has eight days- his savings aren’t even enough for the groceries- </span>
  <em>
    <span>he can’t fix this</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason presses himself harder against the concrete behind him and digs his nails in deeper. He can figure this out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he has to figure this out</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He gags and spits, even though nothing but the remnants of his tea comes up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Uncurling himself takes too much effort, and Jason ends up resting his forehead on his knees, fingers still wrapped around his ankles in an attempt to steady his hitching breathing. He has no idea how much time has passed, how many minutes he’s lost, and he fumbles in his pocket for the watch he stole last week, off some suit who was shouting into his phone, but his fingers brush something else. The panic button Robin had handed him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason contemplates it for a moment, turning it over in his palm as his throat tightens, a mixture of dread and fear closing iron bands around it. He could- would they help him? If he could just get another job-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t waste his one-use miracle on something like paying the bills. Besides, what vigilantes would be willing to pay some idiot’s rent? His stomach churns.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason doesn’t- he doesn’t have </span>
  <em>
    <span>time </span>
  </em>
  <span>for this. He doesn’t have time to freak out, to do anything but try to make money. He pulls himself to his feet and then sways, black obscuring his vision as his blood pressure drops. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>He swears, crouching and pressing his hands to the roof. The vertigo fades after a few seconds, leaving him lightheaded and unbalanced. Jason hates</span> <span>head rushes, hates how they leave him vulnerable at unpredictable moments, hates how they can bring him to his knees when all he wants to do is walk away. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a few stumbling steps for Jason to get his legs with the program, and he fills the few extra seconds with getting his hands to stop shaking. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They can’t keep shaking for long. He’s got money to make.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not that Jason doesn’t know that the bats and birds of Gotham know everything that goes on in the city. Everyone knows that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thing he forgot was how easy it was to misinterpret the things you see. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s on his fifth john of the night, with about three hours to go until he has to start heading home, and he is pinned against the wall of an alley by his wrists.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man had handed Jason fifty up front, which was more than many were willing to spend for an hour in a motel, let alone a quick fuck in between a couple buildings. Jason hadn’t asked any questions other than to make sure the guy knew what he wanted. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With the bills in his back pocket, Jason is more than happy to arch into the man’s touch when he runs a hand down Jason’s front. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon,” he says, stretching the drawl of his accent out. The john is well dressed, with enough money to not belong in Crime Alley, not unless he was looking to play out one fantasy or another. “Stop teasin’.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckles and Jason smiles. A laugh means the client is happy and a happy client is a paying client. “Why don’t you just let me do what I want, and we’ll see how you like it?” The man laughs again, the sound somehow lower than before. “Deal?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason nods, the brick of the wall behind him rough against his neck. “Deal,” he says, and shudders against the hand that rests on his stomach. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The grip around his wrists tightens to the point of being painful, but Jason twists the groan that slips out from between his lips into a whine. The hand on his stomach slides southward and the sixteen year old tilts his head to the side as the man begins to press his lips to Jason’s neck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re going to have so much fun, gorgeous. So much fun.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a rustle of paper on paper and Jason glances down to see another ten dollars join the bills in his pocket. “Sounds good to me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A finger slips under his waistband and begins to move side to side, the rest of the hand joining soon after. Jason shivers, and the motion isn’t entirely faked. The man pulls back for a moment, his sweaty touch stopping as he starts to fumble with the button on Jason’s jeans. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hurry up,” Jason says, forcing himself to sound more breathless, more </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because he’s got limited time for each client and this man isn’t well-paying enough for Jason to not rush him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The john pauses and Jason freezes, feels phantom sweat run down his spine. His expression is completely changed, the lust and greed that had seemed to have overtaken everything now dripping with anger. “Shut up, </span>
  <em>
    <span>whore</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When you’re working the streets, you have to be careful. Most of the time, you can look at someone, watch the way they interact with others, and guess how they’d treat you in bed. But a quick glance-over isn’t always accurate. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man pinning Jason to the wall looks harmless. A slight belly from too many beers a day, facial hair that’s well maintained but not perfectly trimmed, a suit that is nice enough for an office but not nice enough for more than a large cubicle, they all point to a man who is unsatisfied with whoever he’s married to, a man who just wants a break from the monotone world that is his life. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There had been nothing hinting at the furious expression that is twisting the man’s face into something resembling a nightmare. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“S-Sorry,” Jason stutters out, pressing his back against the wall even harder as he ducks his head in submission. There’s a pit opening in his stomach, one that tells him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>go with it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>survive</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because he’d much rather limp home a few bills short of his goal than not go home at all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn right, you’re sorry.” The man’s roaming hand has slid under Jason’s shirt and is ghosting up and down his chest. “Talking to me like you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>better, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like-”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a thump from behind him, and the pressure on Jason’s wrists disappears as the man is wrenched backwards with a yell, a shadowed figure ripping him away. Nightwing moves in front of Jason, a snarl on his face that is usually reserved for traffickers and psychopaths. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay </span>
  <em>
    <span>the fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> away from him</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The suit-wearing man sneers, face contorting as he battled between fear and anger. He stumbles back even as he protests his innocence. Jason wants to throw up. “I didn’t do </span>
  <em>
    <span>jackshit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s his </span>
  <em>
    <span>job, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I paid him to do his goddamn job!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There is no movement in the alley for a moment and Jason watches as the man starts to sweat, his blustering confidence crumbling, perhaps realizing that yelling at a Bat is not a good life investment. Nightwing lets out a noise that can only be described as a growl, escrimas flickering to life in his hands. The man opens and closes his mouth a few times, panicked and stupid in the face of a Bat’s wrath. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nightwing takes a step away from Jason, advancing on the john. He moves with a grace that mimics a predator, claws unsheathed and teeth bared. When he speaks, his voice is more fury than sound. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Run.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The man takes off like the hounds of hell are chasing him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The vigilante’s shoulders are tense and the coiled strength in his body makes Jason twitch, instincts blaring that the man in front of him is </span>
  <em>
    <span>deadly</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Then Nightwing sucks in a deep breath, head tipping back for a moment as he exhales. The anger in his frame drains away, and as the vigilante relaxes, Jason does as well. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason lets out a shuddering breath and runs a hand over his face, suddenly feeling as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nightwing turns, slipping his escrima sticks back into their holsters. The vigilante shifts from foot to foot, obviously unable to decide on what to say. “Are you…” Nightwing pauses for a moment, before continuing. “...okay?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ amazing right now.” Jason scrubs a hand across a cheek, a halfhearted attempt at trying to rub away the feeling of the man’s breath on him. It doesn’t make a difference. Jason tells himself that it does. Nightwing is still hovering around him, hands twitching like he wants to help but doesn't know how. If he says some stupid </span>
  <em>
    <span>pitying thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’s going to get punched. Jason shoots him a glare. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>What.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I-uh. Do you want to hang out?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nightwing gives him a small grin, puts his hands on his hips like he’s used to stuffing them into his front jeans pockets. “Do you want to hang out? B’s not out tonight and Robin is a few rooftops away.” When Jason doesn’t answer, Nightwing keeps talking. “We’ve got snacks?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I...fine.” Jason says. Because why the fuck not. After thinking he was going to be murdered in an alleyway, how lifechanging was having a </span>
  <em>
    <span>snack </span>
  </em>
  <span>with a couple of vigilantes going to be?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---------------------</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Very lifechanging. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nightwing doesn’t like pineapple on pizza but thinks that ranch is an acceptable topping, and Robin is somehow simultaneously failing English class and acing Spanish. Jason has never been more disgusted and confused in his life. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“English is your native language!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Robin groans and slumps back on to the roof, one arm thrown over his masked eyes. “Yeah, well, my brain doesn’t seem to agree.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How the fuck are ya failin’ your native language?” Jason shifts into a more comfortable sitting position, tucking one ankle under the other, and drags the pizza box full of slices covered in pineapple closer to him. “It’s not like you aren’t fluent or some shit.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I understand English,” Robin says, “It’s just that I don’t get what </span>
  <em>
    <span>message </span>
  </em>
  <span>William Golding is trying to convey. Who cares, anyway. He wrote that stupid book for some stupid reason, why do </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>have to figure it out?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason leans forward, not pausing in his movement when he shoots a glare at Nightwing for ruining yet </span>
  <em>
    <span>another </span>
  </em>
  <span>decent slice of pizza. “You’re readin’ Lord of the Flies?” Robin nods and Jason rolls his eyes. “There’s no fuckin’ message in that book. It’s a story based on the author’s students, that’s all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Robin throws his hands up, narrowly missing knocking Nightwing’s cup of ranch from his hand. “Then what do I say? I have an essay due on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Monday</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, here’s what you do.” Jason pops a piece of pineapple into his mouth as he talks. “What teachers </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to hear is you talk about the need for government and rules an’ shit. Just write an essay about how humans have a need for structure and rules, or else we’ll like, go back to animal instincts or some bullshit.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nightwing mutters something around his mouthful of pizza. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Robin asks, face switching between disgust and curiosity as he watches the older vigilante try to talk around his bite of food. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nightwing swallows, visibly struggling to not choke, before he tries again. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>said</span>
  </em>
  <span>, ‘that’s propaganda.’”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A laugh escapes Jason’s lips. “Talk about propaganda all ya want birdie, you’re still the person who ate ranch with </span>
  <em>
    <span>pizza</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He ignores the vigilante’s attempts at protesting that pizza toppings have nothing to do with propaganda. “Listen, propaganda isn’t good, right? Well, ranch with pizza is worse. Propaganda is the work of a shitty person, ranch on pizza is the work of the devil.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The rooftop bursts into noise as Nightwing tries to argue his way out of the grave he dug for himself, and Jason finds himself choking on snickers as he destroys the weak protests that come his way.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He isn’t sure he’s ever been happier. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason starts scanning the rooftops every night, eyes catching on each flicker of movement, each piece of bright color. More often than not, he ends up spending an hour or two with either Nightwing or Robin or both. Batman doesn’t make another appearance, at least not near Jason.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pretends not to notice the fifties that appear in his pockets after he hangs out with the vigilantes and they pretend like they don’t know he knows where they’re coming from. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason stops working the corners so much at night, the money that he finds tucked into his jacket more than enough to make up for it. His parents don’t ask where the money is coming from. He’s not sure whether they don’t care or if they haven’t even noticed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He stops spending so much time at home. When he does, more often than not his dad is drunk in the living room, dirty work boots still on, eyes glued to the TV screen, and his mom is either high out of her mind or on one of her spurts of detox where she scrubs the whole kitchen down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason makes sure to stay with his mom on the days when her eyes seem clearer. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His days get calmer, more consistent in their safety, and for what might be the first time in his life, Jason finds that the weight on his shoulders has been lessened. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The day it does, Jason is at home. His mom is sleeping, making up for the missed sleep from the night before. Jason had been late coming back and she, in one of her more clear minded moments, waited for him. He’s glad she managed to fall asleep, what with how loud the news is on. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Get me another beer.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason shoots a look at Willis, his dad’s back to him as he waits for his drink. The teenager grabs a bottle from the bottom of the fridge and is halfway to the living room when he catches sight of the TV screen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A reporter, her thick coat whipping in the wind, is being filmed in front of a place anyone in Gotham knows on sight. Arkham Asylum. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason reaches his dad and passes him the drink, making sure to avoid the rest of the bottles that are littered on the ground around him. “What happened?” He asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Willis huffs, taking a long pull of his beer before responding. “Breakout. Fuckin’ revolving door, is what that piece of shit place is.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason watches as the reporter gestures behind her and continues talking, mugshots of patients appearing on the screen above her. The pictures show face after unrecognizeable face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“...The breakout was not a very large one,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she says, and the mugshots being shown shift to more well-known ones. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Citizens should be vigilant for the appearance of Joker gas, and be sure to notify the police if they catch sight of either Joker or Harley Quinn.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason suppresses a shiver at the sight of Joker’s face, his garish face a feature of too many people’s nightmares. If the Joker is out, the streets aren’t safe. Hell, most places aren’t safe, but staying on the streets after this breakout would be a special kind of stupid. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Tonight isn’t going to be a very quiet night, but I hope everyone gets some sleep.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The reporter smiles, expression plastic as she waits for the feed to change. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a roaring in his ears as Jason stumbles back a step, deaf to the sound of glass breaking under his shoes. Everyone knows to stay inside when the Joker’s out. He turns Gotham into his own personal stomping ground, and it’s all anyone can do to avoid getting stomped on. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus.” Jason runs a hand through his hair, fingers tapping his pockets as he automatically checks for his wallet, his keys. He needs his jacket, maybe a hoodie. He needs to find Nightwing, find </span>
  <em>
    <span>Robin</span>
  </em>
  <span>, make sure that they’re safe, that they’re prepared. He turns to go, mind already spinning as he tries to guess where the vigilantes will be, when a hand grabs his arm. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Willis has pulled himself off of the couch, something Jason wasn’t sure he would, or could, ever do, and is glaring at him, red-faced and bleary eyed. His mouth twists into a scowl and Jason takes a step back, pulling at his dad’s grip as he does. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Jason snarls, eyes narrowed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He slams his mouth shut almost before the word leaves his mouth, narrowly avoiding biting his tongue. He knows better than to sound like that when talking to his dad, especially when he’s so deep into a bottle.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s whipped to one side as Willis pulls him, stumbling and trying not to fall. He really doesn’t want to fall on glass. “The</span>
  <em>
    <span> fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> did ya jus’ say t’ me?” Willis shakes him again, his grip like a steel trap. Jason can feel the bruises blooming already. “Ya think you can jus’ talk to me like that an’ get away with it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason is slammed into a wall face first, feet sliding under him as he instinctually tried to stop his movement, and he wheezes as the wind is knocked out of him. The hand that’s on the back of his shirt tightens, and he’s pulled backward, only to be thrown against the wall again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ya got somethin’ else to say to me?” Jason doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, as he lets Willis turn him around and press him against the flaking paint. The white noise that filled his head is gone, replaced with the utter stillness of his living room, the silence only broken by his shaking breaths and Willis’ heaving ones. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His head snaps to the side, cheek stinging in a way that tells him it’s going to bruise horribly. Willis brings his hand back again, pausing at Jason’s flinch. “Nothin’?” Jason grits his teeth against the pain lancing through his face, and swallows as Willis hits him again, and again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and again. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Around hit number five, Willis must get bored of him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jason thinks, maybe a little concussed, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he just got tired of standing up</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The grip on his shirt loosens, and Jason lets himself drop to the floor, legs folding under him. Willis says something, maybe an insult, maybe laughs, but it’s not loud enough for him to hear. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason just lays there and tries to remember how to breathe. He keeps his eyes on the floor, watches as Willis’ boots stomp back to the couch, watches as his dad throws himself back onto the couch and pretends like the last thirty seconds never happened. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The TV gets switched to a different channel, a sports announcer’s voice filling the apartment. Jason pushes himself up, using the window for leverage as he tries to get his feet under him. His face throbs and he runs his tongue along his teeth, feeling for any loosened ones. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Walking to his bedroom takes more effort than it should, and Jason does his best to ignore the hollowness in his chest that seems to reappear whenever his dad gets mad or his mom gets high. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His jacket is crumpled at the foot of his bed and he tugs it on as fast as he can, fingers unconsciously seeking out the now-reassuring weight of his panic button. Zipping up the jacket is harder than he expects. When his hands are still shaking a few tries later, Jason gives up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He moves as fast as he can through the living room, narrowly avoiding breaking more bottles as he goes, and stumbles out of the apartment, heart jack-rabitting in his chest. He has to find Robin, has to find Nightwing, has to </span>
  <em>
    <span>warn them</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Robin is still so full of life, so bright and warm. Even after spending however long staring down Gotham’s underworld nightly, he still manages to smile. That’s pretty rare in a city like this. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Joker is a nightmare come to life and all Jason can see as he runs down a flight of stairs is Robin’s crumpled body at the feet of the clown. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>goes to ground when the Joker comes out to play, </span>
  <em>
    <span>except </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the vigilantes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Except for Robin and Nightwing and Batman. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Robin is </span>
  <em>
    <span>just a kid</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He can’t let a kid, no matter how well trained, get hurt. The panic that’s running through him grows, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason shoulders his way out of his apartment building, darting between the people who are undoubtedly either coming in from or going to work, and starts sprinting down the sidewalk. The sun has just begun to go down and Jason can only hope that Robin and Nightwing are out early. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hell</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’ll take the fucking Batman if that’s what it takes to make sure Robin knows who’s free.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He turns down an alleyway, already plotting out his route in his head. They usually end up hanging out on Jason’s smoking roof, whether or not Jason gets there first, but that means that he’ll have to get up three flights of a fire escape, nevermind that the dumpster usually under the set of rickety ladders has been moved, taking away a precious boost to the fire escape. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason trips on nothing and would’ve fallen flat on his face if the hand on his bicep hadn’t stopped him. He turns, a ‘thank you’ ready on his lips for whatever other street rat had saved him, when street lights glint off metal, and then Jason is desperately trying to get away, because that’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>syringe </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the person’s hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He needs to run--yell--</span>
  <em>
    <span>something--</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The needle sinks into his arm and Jason wavers on his feet as whatever was in the syringe is sent into his bloodstream. The grip on his arm loosens, his attacker likely confident that Jason’ll be too drugged up to fight soon. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason staggers, a weak snarl slipping from his mouth as he struggles to remain upright. He’d rather go down fighting than begging. The world whirls around him, and he finds himself sliding down the wall of the alleyway, knees giving out even as his feet scramble for purchase. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His attacker steps closer and the last thing Jason sees before he sinks into the growing drug-haze is a clown mask, smiling down at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wakes up slowly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first thing he registers is the pinch of metal around his wrists. The second thing is the smell. Unwashed bodies, garbage and the copper tang of blood that he can almost taste on his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason cracks his eyes open and bites back the groan that tries to rise to his lips. Unbidden, the memory of a clown mask swims to the surface of his mind and he shudders. He can hope and wish all he wants that whoever that was behind that mask was some stupid copycat, but he knows better. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The Joker has him. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>Most parents tell their children lies and fairytales to keep them safe, tell them to not wander off </span><em><span>or else the bogeyman will get them</span></em><span>. In Gotham, the warnings are much more real. Don’t get lost or</span> <span>Black Mask</span> <span>might grab you. Stay in school or else Scarecrow’ll get you. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Be careful and don’t let the Joker find you. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason curses his stupidity at thinking the vigilantes needed a warning. They probably had alarms set for whenever the big players broke out of Arkham. All he would’ve done is get in their way. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Hopefully, that means that they’re out looking for the clown right now. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>...Maybe he can help speed up their searching?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason fumbles for his pockets, cuffs hindering him as he scrambles for the tech he’d been given. Getting fired doesn’t warrant pushing the button but getting snatched by the Joker sure as hell does. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers feel almost numb as he feels along the outside of his jacket, over and over again, searching for the button’s distinctive shape. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not there</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere, on the journey from his apartment to this cell, he lost it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s going to die here, alone - </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’ll be just another unidentifiable body </span>
  </em>
  <span>- Robin and Nightwing will never know what happened to him - </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one else will even notice</span>
  </em>
  <span> - </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Jason doesn’t want to die.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The room is dark and shadowed, and Jason finds himself blinking rapidly, as if he only needs to clear spots from his vision to see properly. Fear is pounding through his veins, a rapid tempo almost too fast for his thoughts to keep up with. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He swallows down the thickness in his throat and forces himself to breathe, pushes away the realization of who has him, and relaxes his body. His eyes will adjust, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he knows this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and tensing up over and over again will just lead to exhaustion that will hurt him later. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The room around him slowly comes into focus. Jason lets his breath catch at the sight of the tiles, the broken  and flickering fluorescent lights, the - </span>
  <em>
    <span>undoubtably empt</span>
  </em>
  <span>y - cupboards. It’s a carbon copy of every examination room in </span>
  <em>
    <span>every</span>
  </em>
  <span> hospital Jason has ever been in. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The examination table has been removed, likely to make space for however many people they were - </span>
  <em>
    <span>he was </span>
  </em>
  <span>- planning on keeping, and the screens that tend to take up a corner of the room are gone as well. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason sways where he sits, suddenly dizzy, and he lets himself rest his head against the wall behind him. He slams his eyes shut, only to force them open again, filled with the fear that if he lets them slip closed, he’ll fall asleep and wake up somewhere else. Somewhere worse. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He scans the room again and his eyes stop on a pair of shadowy figures in the opposite corner. He has no idea how he missed them and he squints, desperately trying to figure out if they’re just as helpless as he is, or if they’re somehow a trap, a twisted test created by a twisted clown. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He would rather get hurt for trying to talk than not take the chance and make a mistake.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“H-Hello?” Jason’s voice is barely more than a croak and he clears his throat, swallowing every drop of spit he has left in his dry mouth and tries again. “Is someone else there?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s the sound of a muffled protest, like someone is talking through ductape and Jason’s stomach drops - </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh god </span>
  </em>
  <span>- and a shuffling, as if the person is trying to get closer - </span>
  <em>
    <span>he fucked up </span>
  </em>
  <span>- and then a voice responds. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.” The person’s voice is wavering, barely there, and it takes Jason a few moments to identify it as a woman. “There’s two of us,” she says, and tears start to thicken her words. “But he wouldn’t stop talking and they said they were gonna shut him up, and now he can </span>
  <em>
    <span>barely breath</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Panic is growing in her tone with each breath she takes, the gasping inhales echoing across the room, and Jason can feel his heartbeat picking up in response, his fear reflecting her. “They broke his nose and put tape over his mouth and now he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason pulls in a shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay. Are ya hurt too?” The woman is clearly not from Crime Alley, her words too crisp and clear, lacking the slur all Alley residents speak with. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“N-No.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, that’s good. Are you restrained?” Jason glances down at his own wrists, locked in front of him by a pair of handcuffs. The locks are nothing like he’s ever seen and he doesn’t want to risk trying to pick them only for something to happen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a shuffle across the room and then a response, as if she had shooken her head, only to remember he couldn’t see her clearly. “Yes,” she says. “I have handcuffs on.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason nods to himself. It’s not that he expected her to be unrestrained, but sometimes thugs underestimated the people who didn’t look dangerous. Unfortunately, only the stupid ones did that, and everyone knows the Joker has his pick of anyone he wants working for him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s your name?” The sixteen year old asks as he leans forward, resting his weight on his hands as he pulls his feet under him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She sucks in a shaky breath that’s audible even from across the room. “Carrie.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Carrie? Nice to meet ya. My name’s Jason.” He can feel the panic in his chest settling as he talks. Maybe it’s because he’s not alone, like he originally thought, but the shaking in his hands lessens with each word. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pushes himself to his feet and takes a wavering step in the direction of Carrie’s voice. “I’m comin’ over there, okay? I need ya t’ talk so I can find ya faster. Can you do that for me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, okay,” she says. “I can do that. Uh - where are you from?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason inches towards her, shuffling as he tried to avoid any possible debris. “The Alley. You?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” He can hear that brief flash of curiosity mixed with pity in her voice, can almost feel it dripping off of her words, and prays that she keeps talking. “I grew up in Bristol, but right now I’m going to Gotham University. I live in the dorms.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason nods, even though he’s not sure if she can see the gesture. “Nice. What’s his name?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause, as if it takes her a second to realize who he’s asking about. “Nate. His name’s Nate.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason’s almost to her now, and he drops into a crouch a few feet away. “Okay. I gotta look at Nate now.” He hears a whispered </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and inches closer to the person he thinks is the man. As he nears, labored breaths grow louder. Jason squints and is able to make out wide eyes above a mess of a nose, blood caking the skin and ductape below it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Nate. Looks like ya got a broken nose. Do ya think you can let me check it out, see how bad it’s broken?” Jason asks, keeping all of his attention on the older boy, despite the gasp that comes from Carrie’s direction. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a muffled sound and Jason hopes it’s Nate telling him yes. Jason drops to his knees and extends his hands, careful to keep the chain between the cuffs from hitting the other man. His fingers brush Nate’s nose and he feels along it carefully, mindful of the pained sounds that echo his movements, as he tries to find breaks or displaced cartilage. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason sits back on his heels. Nate’s broken nose isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>nearly </span>
  </em>
  <span>as bad as it could’ve been. “Don’t feel like they got ya very good. I can set it if ya want. It’s gonna hurt real bad for a second ‘n then it’s gonna feel like heaven compared to before. Sounds good to you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nate nods, the movement exaggerated enough that Jason can see it even in the nearly non-existent light. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Jason says. “Try t’ not move.” He reaches forward, fumbling slightly with the cuffs hindering his reach, and sets his fingers on either side of Nate’s nose. As quickly as possibly, he pushes it back into place, the crunch that follows his movements loud in the silence that fills the room. Nate lets out a groan as his nose is fixed, and Jason laughs, the sound raspy in his dry throat. He sits back on his heels. “Better, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Carrie shuffles from beside Nate, and Jason turns to look at her automatically. “Do you think you have anyone out looking for you?” She asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks of his mom and the way she gets after having taken just a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as she seems to be doing more and more, and his dad, likely either sprawled out on the couch or blowing Jason’s money on a poker game with a buddy or two of his. Jason opens his mouth to answer and then pauses. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers Robin’s ‘thank you’ and Nightwing’s unrelenting gift giving. He remembers the concern on their faces while they spoke to him, and later, the smiles. “Maybe.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They fall silent for a while. Conversations are hard to carry when their only purpose is forgetting about the room around them. Jason must drift off at some point because when he jerks awake, it’s to the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, interspersed with chuckles and murmured words. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nate is frantically pressing the strip of ducttape back into its place and Jason helps him secure the gag before darting across the room, moving as quickly as he could without making a sound. Carrie scrambles away from Nate and Jason watches her scrub her tears away with a sweater sleeve, setting her face in a furious glare only contradicted by the wobble in her chin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason manages to slump to the ground just before the lock clicks and the door swings open. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Two men enter the room, masks no longer covering their faces. That’s not good. Everyone knows that once you’re shown the face of your kidnappers, you’re dead. Jason never thought he’d be released, alive, from the Joker’s grasp, but there had been a shred of hope, however insane, in the back of his mind, that he'd somehow survive this. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He watches as they survey the room before their gazes lock onto Carrie. “Come on,” one of them says, beginning to make his way towards her. “Boss wants to see ya.” The other man chuckled and Jason listened as Carrie let out a sob, the sound the only crack in her otherwise stony facade. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She gets hauled to her feet, one of the men holding onto the chain that connects her cuffs to pull her up. Jason’s body is responding faster than his brain is to the situation, and he can feel his legs tensing beneath him as he eases himself into a crouch, movements too small to be noticed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The two goons drag Carrie towards the door, not pausing as she stumbles, visibly trembling. The glare that she had worn is long gone, replaced by a look of panic, eyes wide and gaze darting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason rises from his crouch just as the trio passes him. He throws himself against the nearest man, shoulder lowered to drive into the goon’s stomach. The man is knocked backwards with a shout, and Jason ignores the ache in his shoulder, likely because he aggravated some old injury or another, and barrels into the other clown follower. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As he pushes the second goon off balance, Carrie scrambles backwards, retreating to the imagined safety of the far wall. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The speed and unexpectedness of Jason’s attack are the only reasons why it worked in the first place, and he quickly finds himself overwhelmed as he’s attacked in return. He feels fire bloom up the side of his face as he’s pinned to the concrete, a hand grinding his head into the shards of glass that decorate the floor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s dragged from the room faster than he can blink, and is herded down one creepy hallway after another, the spaces left unlit more often than not. Jason can feel himself start to shake. His knees buckle, weak with the knowledge of what’s waiting for him, and the men arround him swear as they pull him back to his feet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason wonders how easy it would be to convince one of them to kill him before they reach whatever room the Joker is waiting in. Everyone knows that Joker handpicks his henchmen, and that they tend to be smarter than the average goon. Jason could provoke the men around him for </span>
  <em>
    <span>hours</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he’d still be alive by the time the Joker got to him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Half carried, half guided, Jason stumbles through a doorway. The space around him alternates between pitch black and too-bright lighting, flourescent spotlights making the paint on the clown’s face even more garish. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>An involuntary shiver runs down his spine as he locks eyes with the grim reaper in disguise, and sees nothing but </span><em><span>pure</span></em> <em><span>crazy </span></em><span>staring back at him. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This is how I die,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jason thinks.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Trapped in some abandoned hospital, too stupid to keep track of the one thing that could save me. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Joker smiles, his grin seeming to stretch unnaturally wide. “Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>do we have here?” His voice is a whisper, like the rush of wind that pushes you forward and off of a ledge. Jason shudders, curling in on himself, as if shrinking away would somehow divert the Joker’s attention elsewhere. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The hand on his upper arm tightens and the man holding him responds. “He was tryin’ to cause some trouble. Figured you’d want to have a go at him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Joker cocks an eyebrow and moves closer. “You’ve been causing a little trouble, huh?” He asks, staring down at Jason. Jason can’t help but look away. He feels almost disconnected, as if he’s managed to stuff most of himself away in a little box, and left just enough to know what’s going on. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The clown shakes his head in mock disappointment. “We don’t want any trouble, do we?” He reaches out, moving almost too fast for Jason to process, and wraps a hand around the teenager’s chin. “No, we don’t,” Joker says, shaking Jason’s head as he speaks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He lets go of Jason’s chin, taking a step back. Jason sucks in a breath, the tightness in his chest receding just the tiniest bit as he does so. He doesn’t know when he stopped breathing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The relief doesn’t last for long. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Joker spins around, moving away from the table he had turned to while Jason struggled to breathe. The fluorescent light shines brightly, doing nothing to hide the syringe in the clown’s hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason has no idea what the drug could be, but it was very likely able to keep him alive while making him beg for his death. He pulls against the grips on his shoulders, fruitlessly trying to get away, because the Joker is </span>
  <em>
    <span>getting closer.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The clown grins. “Oh, don’t worry. It’ll all be over </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>soon.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason is pinned, Joker’s fingers threaded through his hair to pull his head back. He shuts his eyes, determined to think of something else, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything else</span>
  </em>
  <span>, before he dies. He doesn’t want his last moments to be a nightmare. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The needle sinks into his neck and then is pulled out, almost too fast for Jason to feel more than a pinch. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe he wasn’t ready to die, maybe he had more to do, more to </span>
  </em>
  <span>see</span>
  <em>
    <span>, but at least he doesn’t have to wait very long. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Joker leans in, his breath warm in Jason’s ear. “Just kidding,” he says, singsonging his way through the words. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Jason starts to </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Waking up on the floor is never a good sign, especially when your body is still shaking from leftover Joker toxin. A stray giggle slips out of Jason’s mouth and he follows it with a sob. His whole body </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and each time a smile creeps back onto his face he can feel the muscles spasm, as if he’s been smiling for hours. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he has. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The time and space between Joker drugging him and him waking up with his face resting on too-familiar shards of glass is hazy, with moments of clarity only containing fear and mounting pain as he laughs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason blinks, slowly. Another chuckle wells up in his throat and he swallows it down, twisting it into a sound too similar to a whimper to be anything else. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a murmur from a distance. Jason isn’t sure if any actual words were said, but the tone of concern, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>worry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, carries across the room. He drags his arm out from underneath himself, and rests his palm against the ground. His other arm mimics the motion and Jason pushes himself up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sitting without leaning against something proves to be too much of a challenge, so Jason slumps against the wall. The room is brighter than it was before. He wonders if the lights were turned on so that Nate and Carrie could see what happened if you fought. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks again and finds the floor has tilted dangerously, in a way that sends Jason crashing back onto it, this time on his side instead of his stomach. Pain, burning hotter than anything Jason has ever felt, encompasses him, every sense narrowed onto a single point.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A gutteral sound escapes his mouth and he curls in on himself, as if the movement would stop the white-hot agony that is dancing across his face. Jason starts laughing again, the sounds spilling out of him in cracked, half formed noises. It does nothing but make him curl up tighter, choking on tears and spit as he giggled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe this is how the Bats will find me. Nothing but a cooling corpse, still smiling. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’d rather shoot himself in the head than die with the Joker’s grin on his face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, the pain subsides to a more manageable throb. He still feels like a red-hot poker is being pressed into his face, but at least now he can breathe. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason cracks his eyes open again, squinting against the bright light. He doesn’t try to sit up again. A blurred figure moves closer, with another person hovering behind them, and says something, their words too muddled for Jason to make them out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He opens his mouth and then clamps it shut as the left side of his face lights up. He closes his eyes again. Maybe when he wakes up, the pain will have gone down a little. Enough for him to get a few words out or for him to be able to understand whatever the figure - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Carrie or Nate, probably </span>
  </em>
  <span>- said. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason hears a rushed noise of protest, as if the speaker wanted him to stay awake, even for just a bit longer, but the roaring in his ears overwhelms the aches in his body, and he sinks into sleep. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hopes that when he resurfaces, everything will make more sense. </span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Opening his eyes to an empty room feels worse than he thought. If Joker killed them, would Jason be able to hear their screams? Or was he just playing with them, like a cat with its mouse, like the Joker had with Jason. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Or did they already give their last breaths while Jason was busy being passed out on the floor?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pushes himself up, this time ready for the immediate dizziness, and props himself up as he waits for it to pass. The glass he ends up grinding into his hands as he steadies himself sends licks of pain up his arms, but he ignores it in favor of prioritizing the ache that encompasses his face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason manages to get his feet under himself and as he stands, he leans against the wall. His legs buckle, sending him crashing back to his knees. As he gasps out pained breaths in an effort to ignore the already-forming bruises, he thinks about staying there. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What good would standing do, anyway? Other than potential injuring himself more, not much could happen. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Unless there is something in this room that can serve as a mirror. Finding out how bad an injury is is the first step towards fixing it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stumbling around the room proves to be insufficient in his attempts to find some way to see his reflection, at least until he slumps against an untouched, presumably empty, cupboard, and opens it. Some moron left a mirror, the kind that doctors seem to only use in the most uncomfortable situations. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>What would Jason know anyway, he hasn’t been to an actual doctor’s office since he was seven years old. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He holds it with numb fingers, scared that if he loosens his grip the </span>
  <em>
    <span>tiniest </span>
  </em>
  <span>bit, he’ll drop it. He tilts it as carefully as possible, adrenaline that had sent him to his feet fading. Jason attempts to tilt it at an angle that allows him to see his face whil also not forcing him to lift his arm any further. If he had to move more, he’s pretty sure he’d just go right back to where he began. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason keeps his eyes locked on the tiny image of himself, tilting up and up and </span>
  <em>
    <span>up</span>
  </em>
  <span> and--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The mirror slips from his fingers, landing and shattering into pieces that skitter across the ground. Jason barely notices, too busy absorbing what he saw. He has a </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘J’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>burned into </span>
  <em>
    <span>his skin. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Like a collar on a dog, it’ll let everyone who sees know just </span>
  <em>
    <span>who </span>
  </em>
  <span>put it there. And just who he belongs to. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason has no doubt, now, that the Joker plans to drag his death out over days, maybe even weeks, time that will be filled with nothing but pain and desperation, ending with a final moment of </span>
  <em>
    <span>relief</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sinks to the ground, heedless of the mirror shards that crunch beneath his weight. His hands, almost aimlessly, drift over the ground, over and over again, as if he will somehow find something to save himself with. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers brush over something, once, twice, before he looks down. And sees his salvation staring back at him. The panic button that had been given to him on a windy rooftop in Crime Alley sits on the floor. It must’ve fallen from his pocket while he was unconscious, when he had first been dragged into this living hell. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clicking it is easy, with no signal of success, no blinking light to let him know that the signal had reached the vigilantes. Jason almost wants to push it again, but if he pushes it again, it could turn off. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Who would build a panic button without a way to turn it off?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But wouldn’t Robin and Nightwing have told him if that were the case?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He lets it drop from his hand, the last dregs of energy he’d been holding onto with desperate hands slipping away. If it works, he’ll either be rescued or he’ll at least get buried, instead of resurfacing as some unrecognizeable body, doomed to be cremated and sit on a shelf in a box for however ong it takes to throw him away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If it doesn’t work, he’s dead. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason really hopes that the world goes with the first option. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Drifting back into a haze of exhaustion and fear is too easy. Not paying attention to his surroundings is not the smartest option he has, but having the cushion of dissociation between him and the pain is heaven compared to how he felt before. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason doesn’t let himself slide back into unconsciousness. Squeezing his palm tight enough to make his cuts start stinging again does the trick and when it doesn’t, all he has to do is smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Minutes, maybe hours, pass, as Jason waits. At one point, he thinks he hears gunfire, the rat-tat-tat mixing with shouts. But then time stretches and it feels as though days pass between silence falling and the door opening. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A figure darts across the room, colors bright against the stark white and gray of the walls and floor. Another person follows, a blue bird stretched across their chest. Jason tilts his head back as they approach, doing his best to blink the blurriness from his vision. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Robin drops to his knees beside Jason, and the teenager opens his mouth to warn him about the glass, but his voice dies before the words can make it to his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Jason,” Robin says, tone thick with something that sounds like tears. “You’re gonna be okay.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fingers run through his hair and Jason jerks away, only to press himself back against the wall as the cut - </span>
  <em>
    <span>brand </span>
  </em>
  <span>- forces a groan of pain past his lips. He swallows thickly and leans back into Nightwing’s hovering hand. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The vigilante begins to pet his hair, gently untangling knots as he does so. Jason has a growing feeling that he has something to say, something </span>
  <em>
    <span>important </span>
  </em>
  <span>to ask--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Carrie!” He croaks out. “Nate...‘n C-Carrie. Are they okay? Did ya find ‘em?” His brief moment of talking reignites the fire that is the left side of his face and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting against the wave of dizziness that threatens to send him back to the ground. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nightwing would probably catch him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jason hears a sound of confirmation and feels the last bit of tension in his body drain out of him. He’s safe, they’re safe, they’re all </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even Nightwing and Robin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He slumps against Robin, careful to not let his brand touch anything but air, and breathes. “Thank you.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Someone pats his back, he’s not sure who, and then he’s being lifted into the air, someone else’s arms holding him to an armoured chest. He cracks his eyes open for just a moment, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just to check</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and sees the Batman staring down at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” he says, word more slur than anything else. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello,” Batman says, and then smiles. It’s small, just an uptick at the corner of his mouth, but Jason sees it. And for the first time in however long it had been since he had been taken, he feels completely safe. </span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ya'll I am amazed at the amount of responses I got on the first chapter so</p><p>thank ya'll for your continued support and I hope you enjoy! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Today was supposed to be a calm night. Tim has a Spanish test in the morning and, try as he might to convince Bruce otherwise, they were going to cut patrol short so that he could study. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It was supposed to be a calm night. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They had split up, only going a few blocks apart. Bruce knows that he has to give Robin space to learn, to grow into himself. He already made the mistake of being too stifling once. He isn’t going to do that again. </p><p> </p><p>Dick had barely spoken to him for months after he was fired. Alfred had had to invite Dick to brunch, over and over and <em> over again </em>, until he accepted. It had taken two months of stilted silence and awkward small talk before they were able to have a real conversation. </p><p> </p><p>Bruce isn’t sure what he would do if Tim did that same thing. </p><p> </p><p>So he let Tim off on his own - <em> it was only a few blocks, Bruce had been </em> moments <em> away </em>- and now Robin isn’t answering his comm. </p><p> </p><p>“Robin, status report.” Bruce keeps the fear from his voice, the <em> dread </em>, because showing weakness as Batman is the same thing as stepping in front of a bullet. The last time a Robin hadn’t responded to his check-ins, Bruce had found him too close to unconsciousness with too many broken limbs. Black Mask had been sent to Arkham with a single functioning arm and Dick had been stuck on crutches for months. </p><p> </p><p> “Robin,” he says again. He’s following the signal of Tim’s tracker, crossing the gaps between rooftops at a speed too fast to be safe. “Report!”</p><p> </p><p>A voice crackles over the line and it <em> isn’t </em> Robin. <em> “Robin is down. Do you have a tracker on him or do I gotta tell ya where we are?”   </em></p><p> </p><p>Crime Alley accent - <em> young but not scared </em>- too nonchalant to be unfamiliar with the sight of violence- </p><p> </p><p>The teenager - <em> kid </em> - sounds too young to be a new supervillian, and there is no tone of satisfaction in his words. But he’s too old to rule out gang affiliation. Most of the gangs in Gotham, the smaller ones at least, seem to have realized how <em> stupid </em>it is to go hunting Robin instead of Batman. Unfortunately, the people who know to leave Robin alone are very low on Batman’s list of potential attackers.</p><p> </p><p>“What have you done to him?” Batman ignores the curl of fear in his stomach as he keeps moving. He’s <em> almost there. </em> “If you’ve hurt him…” He lets his threat trail off. His mind is rapidly constructing and deconstructing scenarios as he runs, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he finds Robin broken - bleeding - <em> dead.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Batman toes the line between his own destruction and creation. He can’t be sure that that line will still exist if he finds Tim’s body.</p><p> </p><p>So he lets his sentence end before he finishes it, lets his promise go unspoken, because he doesn’t know how to describe just how <em> broken </em>Tim’s attacker will be if Robin is nothing but a corpse when Bruce arrives. He lets the person on the comm imagine his own fate. Bruce has found that imagination is always much scarier than reality. </p><p> </p><p><em>“Listen, I didn’ do jack</em> <em>shit to Robin. People who hurt kids deserve to get dumped in the bay tied to sandbags.” </em>Bruce can tell that they mean that. Whoever’s on the line, whether it’s a trap or not, knows what it’s like to be hurt by someone older. <em>“Robin’s got a six-inch gash down the front of ‘im and I’m holdin’ it closed. Ya coming for pick-up or not?”</em></p><p> </p><p>Bruce starts moving faster. If Tim bleeds out before he gets there, if the person on the comm is nothing but a pawn in a game to lure Batman, if he’s <em> too late </em> , it’ll be Bruce’s fault. He knows that he has to give Tim a chance to prove himself to more than just Bruce, but he could’ve stayed behind, watched from the rooftops, stopped Tim from getting <em> gutted </em>. </p><p> </p><p>He jumps to the last rooftop and slows as much as he can force himself to. An unnoticed approach is crucial in noticing a trap. Bruce can’t help Tim if he’s bleeding out from a bullet to the neck. Scanning the rooftops and neighboring buildings’ windows is instinctual as he approaches the edge. For a moment all he can see is snow and shadows. And then something shifts below and Bruce’s eyes catch on a crouching figure, hands pressed to Robin’s front. </p><p> </p><p>The kid on top of Tim moves again, shooting a quick look over his shoulder and then scanning the alley. Bruce follows his gaze as he drops into the alleyway. <em> Nothing - as far as he can tell.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“If you fuckin’ turned off your earpiece-” The kid starts, a snarl creeping into his words. His voice echoes oddly as the comm repeats his words, only a millisecond behind. Bruce can read the fear in the lines of his shoulders. “-I swear to god, I’ll fuckin’ hunt ya down myself, you-” </p><p> </p><p>“That won’t be necessary,” Bruce says. He moves forward as the kid flinches and then freezes at the sound of Batman’s voice, limbs locking up in a way that reminds Bruce of the nature documentaries Tim sometimes forces him to watch. The boy on the ground in front of him is all sharp angles and fear, squeezed together as if a smaller target would dissuade Batman from attacking. He looks like every animal of prey just before they die. </p><p> </p><p>Bruce doesn’t want to scare the kid. He can tell, now, that there was no way the boy was affiliated with a gang, not with his lack of weapons and his reaction to Bruce’s arrival. Gang members, especially the younger ones, tend to be scared of Batman, but they still act as if they aren’t. They rewrite the fear on their faces to anger, make their wide eyes turn into stone cold glares, even as their fingers tremble on the triggers of their guns. This kid did everything he could to make himself look harmless, shoulders curved in and head down, but didn’t move a single inch away from Tim. </p><p> </p><p>Blood bubbles up from between the kid’s fingers and Bruce is sent back into motion. He drops into a crouch beside Robin, ignoring the way that the kid leans away from him, and gently moves their hands away from Tim. He takes his place, keeping a seal in the form of his gloved hand on the gash as he fumbles with his utility belt. The kid remains unmoving, hands unconsciously flexing in the snow, as if he wants to reach for Robin but won’t. </p><p> </p><p>Taping down the bandage takes only a moment and he scoops up Robin as he stands. Tim is almost too light, likely a result of the tests that have been raining down on him for the past week. Tim forgets to eat when he’s stressed, forgets to sleep when he studies, and then somehow resists Bruce’s every attempt to make him turn out his light and go to bed. </p><p> </p><p>At least Alfred will be able to make Tim stay in bed now. </p><p> </p><p>He begins to move, making his way to the entrance of the alley, and hesitates. The kid is still on his knees, blood coating his hands. “Thank you,” Bruce says. The kid’s eyes are wide and locked onto Bruce, as if he can hardly believe Batman is speaking to him. “Not everyone would’ve stopped.”</p><p> </p><p>The teenager shrugs, the motion too relaxed to match his tone. “S’ not a big deal.”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce pauses. He wonders how many times the boy in front of him had been left in an alley or a hallway or on the floor - <em> the fear in his body language as Bruce crouched beside him had been due to more than being afraid of Batman </em>- and opens his mouth to respond. </p><p> </p><p>There isn’t anything he can say that would help. He doesn’t know this boy’s situation, can’t offer him a home if he already has one - <em> the fact that his clothes fit him and he looks to have taken a shower recently tells Bruce he does </em> - can’t do anything to make a difference. So he closes his mouth and gives the kid a nod, hoping that the motion conveys <em> some </em>level of gratitude, and turns away. </p><p> </p><p>Getting to the Batmobile takes seconds after Bruce calls it to his location. Loading Tim into the backseat is difficult, especially since Bruce needs to fit in after him to make sure his bandages stay on. As he pulls the door shut behind him, he spares one last thought for the boy in the alleyway. Bruce hopes he gets home safe. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Dick is more than a little confused when he comes home from patrol to find Tim in the medbay with what looked like an entire roll of gauze around his stomach and Bruce at the computer, jumping from security camera to security camera feed. </p><p> </p><p>His patrol had been a hard one, leaving him with too many bruises in the shapes of fists and boots. Getting home to a bandaged Robin and an anxious Batman did nothing to help him relax after a difficult patrol. </p><p> </p><p>Dick disarms and strips out of his suit as fast as he can. He knows that whatever happened isn’t urgent, doesn’t need his help. But the covert looks that Bruce keeps shooting at Tim, the edge of anger in Bruce’s movements that are directed more at his computer screen than anywhere else, makes Dick move quickly.</p><p> </p><p>The shower is burning on Dick’s cold skin, the insulation in his suit having done little to protect him from the freezing winds that come with Gotham’s snow. Getting dressed is difficult. The sweatpants and shirt he pulls on stick to his still-wet skin and by the time he manages to put on socks, his toes feel frostbitten. The cold cave floor doesn’t help.</p><p> </p><p>He goes to Tim first. The younger boy looks up as he approaches and tries to lever himself into a sitting position. There’s a flurry of motion from the Batcomputer and then Dick darts forward just as Tim’s arms give out from under him. </p><p> </p><p>He catches Robin before he topples into his mountain of pillows, a hand behind his brother’s head and an arm under his back. Tim grins up at him, face too relaxed to be the result of anything but painkillers. </p><p> </p><p>“Th’nks,” Tim slurs. He pats Dick’s cheek with a clumsy hand as he slowly lowers the younger boy down to lean against his pillows. </p><p> </p><p>Dick looks down at Tim before looking to Bruce. <em> Jesus Christ. </em>“So...what happened?” </p><p> </p><p>Bruce glances at the screen of the computer before turning back at Dick. “Robin got caught up with a mugging. We were...<em> I </em> was trying to let him do things a little more solo.” <em> That obviously didn’t work out </em>, Dick thinks as he watches Tim blink at the faraway ceiling. “The mugger had a knife and got a lucky hit in.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick nods to himself. “And where were you?”</p><p> </p><p>“A few rooftops away.” Dick opens his mouth to respond - <em> why weren’t you listening for Tim on the comms? How did you let Tim get stabbed </em>- when Bruce cuts him off. “I was asking for a status report and then...someone else spoke on the comms. From Tim’s earpiece.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick’s eyes widen. “His attacker?”</p><p> </p><p>“No...it was a child - a teenager.” Bruce shifts in his chair in the way that signals aching bruises. He’s still wearing his Batman suit. Dick wonders if he spared a single moment to patch up his injuries. Looking at the various files and - <em>was that hospital records? </em> - on the screen behind Bruce, Dick doubts it. </p><p> </p><p>“Uh huh.” Dick <em> really </em>hopes this isn’t going where he thinks it is. “Were they homeless?”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce shakes his head slightly as he responds. “No. He was wearing clothes that fit and there weren’t any recent bruises that I could see, but -” He shoots a look at the Batcomputer and the documents displayed across it. “He has too many visits to a local clinic to not be abused.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Seriously? </em> “Are you <em> sure </em>he doesn’t just live in a neighborhood full of gangs?” Dick understands Bruce’s want to ‘save’ this kid. But he wasn’t homeless, his clothes weren’t rags, he wasn’t beat to shit. “Bruce, you can’t just adopt every kid you stumble across.”</p><p> </p><p>The older man frowns. “I’m not...trying to adopt him. I’m just making sure he’s safe.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick raises an eyebrow, even as he turns back to Tim, running his fingers through the younger boy’s hair. Tim sighs and the lines in his forehead that had been forming disappear. “Does he have parents? A place to live that has electricity and water?”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce grunts, the sound neither confirming nor denying. Dick had found, over the years, that that sound was Bruce’s favorite method of getting out of answering questions he didn’t want to answer. Especially when he was in the wrong.</p><p> </p><p>“Does rent get paid every month?” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Yes, </em> but neither of the parents have jobs, as far as I can find.” Both of them know that’s a weak point. Gotham has <em> all kinds </em>of jobs that pay in cash and don’t record their employees. “He could be part of a gang. Or working as a drug mule.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick sighs. “How did you even find records of him? Did you seriously use facial recognition on grainy security footage for the <em> chance </em>to find records of some kid you met for five seconds?” Bruce is silent. “For all you know, that kid is just a part of a bigger plan to trap you.”</p><p> </p><p>“His name’s Jason.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick can already <em> see </em>Bruce mentally drawing up the adoption papers. He’s going to have to nip this at the bud. They need to do more than just a cursory background check before sucking another kid into their nutcase family. </p><p> </p><p>Dick is going to have to conduct surveillance on his own. Protect Tim from what could be some twisted plan to destroy the Bats from the inside. He’s not going to trust this Jason, and he <em> definitely </em> isn’t going to be falling for the trap that Bruce - <em> Batman </em>- may have sprinted into. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They land on the rooftop and - </p><p> </p><p>Dick was so <em> wrong.  </em></p><p> </p><p>They need to adopt this kid <em> immediately.  </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tim lands on the roof, his side only twinging the <em> tiniest </em> bit - <em> he hadn’t been allowed to go out until he’d gotten </em> all <em> of his stitches removed </em>- and then winces as the boy in front of him jolts, feet scrabbling beneath him as he scrambled away. </p><p> </p><p>He - <em> Jason, </em>Tim reminds himself, ends up sprawled on his back, bag of food clutched in his hand. Tim had only found out his name a few weeks ago, when he had surfaced from the haze caused by his painkillers. </p><p> </p><p>Jason had stumbled across Tim - who, having been stupid enough to <em> not notice </em>the mugger’s knife, had gotten stabbed and then left to bleed out in an alleyway - and decided to hold Tim together while talking to Batman over the comms. And he threatened Batman, just for letting him patrol solo. </p><p> </p><p>Tim knows he did. He listened to the comm recordings. </p><p> </p><p>Jason sucks in a shaking breath, eyes wide as he stares up at the two vigilantes. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry!” The words burst from Tim’s lips, a pang of guilt running through his chest. He shifts forward slightly, a hand coming up to offer help before he thinks better of it. <em> He’s the one who scared Jason anyway. </em>“Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Jason blinks, jaw working as if he was chewing the words he’s going to say before he spits them out. And then- “Are <em> you? </em>The hell you doin’ out here? Last I saw ya, you were five minutes from bein’ six feet under.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick drops into a criss-cross behind Tim, body language <em> radiating </em>amusement. Tim knows that Dick had had his doubts about Jason at first. Now it looks like Dick changed his mind. </p><p> </p><p>Tim ducks his head for a moment, feeling a nervous smile start to grow. “I-uh. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” </p><p> </p><p>He watches Jason slowly sit up, his bag of food - <em> tacos, maybe? Tim had seen the food truck a few blocks away </em>- placed protectively behind his bent knees. “You searched the whole city so ya could talk t’ me about me holdin’ you closed ‘til the Bat could get there?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim can see the ‘what the <em> hell’ </em> expression beginning to form on Jason’s face - Bruce only makes that face when he thinks Tim isn’t looking, and even then only when Dick and Tim do something <em> extremely </em>stupid. </p><p> </p><p>His smile grows, just a little bit. “Well- no. I wanted to thank you for what you did. Not everyone would’ve done that.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason shakes his head, bewilderment mixed with wariness flashing in his eyes. He starts to open his mouth but Dick beats him to it. “Really, thank you.” Tim watches Jason’s ears turn pink as he flushes, the rosy color creeping down his neck. “We wanted to thank you but we <em>also</em>…” Dick draws out the last word, like the way a child does when begging for an extra piece of candy. “Wanted to offer you a favor.”</p><p> </p><p>“A favor.” Jason’s words are filled with disbelief, eyebrows raised and eyes narrowed. Tim can read the distrust in every angle of his tense shoulders and bent legs. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Tim says. He leans forward, just enough to be able to reach Jason and still remain unthreatening. He fumbles with one of the side pouches of his utility belt, fingers clumsy with anticipation and excitement. He worked <em> really </em>hard on it, homework discarded in favor of tinkering in the Batcave. Tim hopes Jason likes it. </p><p> </p><p>He drops the device into Jason’s waiting palm, who begins to turn it around, a sharp gaze examining every detail. “What is it?” Jason asks, settling back onto the ground, moving away from Tim. </p><p> </p><p>Dick shifts from behind Tim. “It’s a panic button.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason’s mouth twitchs, whether from amusement or annoyance Tim can’t be sure. “You givin’ me a <em> panic </em>button?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not <em> just </em>for panic.” Tim smiles, careful to keep the expression small. He doesn’t want to scare Jason off with the excitement he can feel bubbling inside. “It’s got a tracker that’s activated when you push that blue button. We’ll get a notification and know that you’re calling for us.”</p><p> </p><p>“Push the button?” Jason narrows his eyes again. “What if I push it accidentally?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim can feel his smile grow. “That’s the thing,” he says, pride coating each word. He spent <em> forever </em>on it’s programming. “I made it so that you have to push the button three times in a row before we get a notification that you signalled us. The clicks have to be less than two seconds apart or we won’t get a signal.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason nods slowly, gaze flickering between the two vigilantes. It’s clear that he has no idea what to say, mouth open but silent. “Thank you,” he says, finally. He glances between Tim and Dick again. “This is really generous.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim starts to speak, starts to reassure Jason - <em> it doesn’t track you unless activated - we’ll keep an eye out for you in case you need help anyway - </em>but Dick pushes himself to his feet, a hand on Tim’s shoulder pulling him up as well. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for helping…” Dick says, trailing off before he can call Jason by name. It takes a moment for Tim to realize what Dick is doing. Tim knows they probably won’t tell Jason just how far they dug into his life before they met him, at least not now, but he hopes that Jason will be a little understanding. Most people don’t like it when someone digs up their life story but Bruce would’ve <em> never </em>let them try to find him without knowing who he is.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” the teenager says, a starstruck look beginning to take over his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Jason,” Dick says, nodding in acknowledgement. “Thanks, Jason.” He turns, the hand on Tim’s shoulder dropping in favor of grabbing his grapple gun. Tim quickly mimics his movements, following Dick off of the edge of the roof with a last wave to Jason.</p><p> </p><p>They grapple across the city towards the sound of sirens, falling into the familiar rhythm of <em> aim - swing - release </em>. Tim can’t stop smiling. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In all of his years as a parent, Bruce has only really learned a single rule. <em> If you follow the sound of arguing, you will always get sucked into the argument. </em>Unfortunately, with Nightwing and Robin patrolling without him tonight, he has to check in with them. Which means that he has to follow the sound of shouting and derisive snorts, through the halls of the manor, until he manages to find whatever room his boys are currently tucked away in. </p><p> </p><p>He finds them in the sunroom, Dick sprawled across an armchair in a way that doesn’t look possible, and Tim perched on the edge of the sofa, knees to his chest and hair wild, every bit of his body language imitating the bird he dresses as. </p><p> </p><p>Tim throws up a hand and runs his fingers through his hair, making it even fluffier than before. Bruce watches silently from the doorway, more than a little surprised that they haven’t noticed him yet. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Although, the volume that they’re shouting at might have something to do with it.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t put <em> ranch </em> on <em> pizza! </em> That is the most <em> ridiculous </em>thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth.” The level of scorn in Tim’s tone could put Alfred to shame. “I can’t believe you think that’s an acceptable topping.”</p><p> </p><p>The fierceness of Dick’s reply would be more at home in a fight with the Riddler or Ivy, not used in a simple disagreement. “Everyone’s taste buds are different, <em> Tim </em>,” he says, spitting the younger boy’s name like it’s a curse. “Just because yours suck doesn’t mean that you’re right.”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce watches in amazement as Tim seems to draw himself up even straighter, looking down his nose at Dick, even as he remains several feet away and several inches shorter. “Who says it’s <em> mine </em>that suck? I think you need to see a doctor, you are obviously delusional.” </p><p> </p><p>Dick snarls in response, jolting in his chair as if he is about to get up and actually <em> attack </em> Tim, before settling. Bruce opens his mouth- <em> to interrupt? Maybe ask a few questions? </em> - when his older child responds. </p><p> </p><p>“Delusional? <em> Delusional?” </em> Dick cackles at the end of the word, his laugh eerily mimicking that of the Joker. There’s an undertone of <em> something </em> in Dick’s voice that Bruce doesn’t like, although he isn’t sure what. “I’m the one who’s delusional? <em> You’re </em> the one who’s willfully missing out on the best idea of the century. You’re the one who’s <em> crazy.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim’s face twists, disdain and disbelief and determination flitting across it, and Bruce hurries to stop him before he can speak. </p><p> </p><p>“Boys. What have I said about yelling in the house?”</p><p> </p><p>Dick jumps, overblown parodies of swears slipping from his lips. He’d picked up the habit the first time Bruce had told him to censor his language, out on one of his first patrols as Robin. Knowing that his mocking ‘swears’ annoyed Bruce did <em> nothing </em> but encourage him. “B! How long have you been standing there?” The innocent expression that Dick immediately assumes does nothing but announce his guilt. </p><p> </p><p>“Long enough,” Bruce says, trying to keep the smile out of his voice but failing. His lips curl up at the edges and he clears his throat before a grin can break through. “You two know my rule about yelling.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Your </em>rule?” Tim says, incredulous even in the face of impending groundation. “That’s not your rule, you’ve said that yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce sighs. <em> Goddamnit. </em>He inhales, preparing to respond, when Dick beats him to it. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, B. Check the security recordings if you’d like. We both know it’s not your rule.”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on, and would <em> really </em> like to avoid it, especially on his Alfred-mandated night off. He’d managed to snap <em> something </em> last patrol, and under Alfred’s withering glare, had ceded tonight’s patrol to Dick and Tim. “Fine,” he says. “It’s not my rule. It’s <em> Alfred’s.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim, who’d undoubtably been planning a scathing retort, shuts his mouth with an audible <em> clop. </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Dick replies, voice nearly in a whisper. He darts a glance at the doorway behind Bruce before continuing. “We’ll stop shouting.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Finally. </em> “Thank you.” Bruce runs a hand over his face before leveling a glare at both of them. “I want you both to <em> promise me </em>that you will stay together on patrol.” Tim raises an eyebrow and Bruce continues before he can interrupt. “I don’t mean splitting up to conduct surveillance on the same building. I want both of you doing the same thing at the same time, understand?”</p><p> </p><p>Both of his boys nod rapidly, almost like bobbleheads, and Bruce pretends that he can’t see the mischievous glint in Dick’s eyes. “Sure thing, B. We’re just going to hang out with Jason anyway. Nothing to worry about.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick responds too fast to do anything but make Bruce suspicious. “And is Jason aware of this..<em> .hang out?” </em> He remembers the scared boy crouching over Tim, remembers the anger and <em> disgust </em>in his voice when he thought Bruce had left Tim to fend for himself. Bruce remembers the excitement on Tim’s face when he began to describe how he was building a panic button, and later, when they came back from tracking Jason down. </p><p> </p><p>Bruce hopes that the boy is okay. He had made Tim smile more in a single night than he had in weeks.</p><p> </p><p>Dick hesitates and Tim responds before the older boy can dig them into a deeper hole. “We’re gonna go get pizza and then...keep an eye out for him. If we see him, we’ll invite him to join us. If we don’t...then we don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>The disappointment in Tim’s voice as he contemplates Jason’s potential failure to appear is so heavy that Bruce finds himself wishing that Jason is out and about by the time his boys get their pizza, if only because of the way Tim’s frown twists something in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay then,” Bruce says. He eyes them again. “Just don’t get separated.” He prepares to leave, maybe go to his study and fill out some paperwork - <em> that would make Lucius happy </em>- when Dick stops him. </p><p> </p><p>“Hang on!” He waits to continue until Bruce turns back to him. “Ranch on pizza or no?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Ranch on pizza? </em>Bruce barely eats pizza. Is ranch an unacceptable topping? Was that what they were arguing about before he interrupted? “I…sure, yes.” </p><p> </p><p>He leaves to the sound of Dick’s elated cheer and Tim’s groan of disgust.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It’s not like it’s Dick’s fault that he was raised by the most paranoid detective in the world. <em> He </em> didn’t choose to learn how to track and predict someone’s daily routine. It just...happened. The skill has come in handy many times over the years, allowing Dick to go undercover and actually <em> know </em>what was about to happen. </p><p> </p><p>Dick only uses his skills for good. Which is why he had recruited Tim to write an algorithm for Jason’s routes while Dick noted down any potential irregularities in his routine. They needed to know where Jason was going to be if they wanted to meet up with him. </p><p> </p><p><em> It isn’t stalking. They just really need his opinion for a very important debate. </em>Dick repeats that to himself, over and over again, as he and Tim settle down on a rooftop smack dab in the middle of Jason’s comfort zone. </p><p> </p><p>Tim reorders the stack of pizzas almost absentmindedly, pulling the cheese to the top and leaving Dick’s masterpiece of a meat lover at the bottom. It smells so <em> good </em>. Dick shakes his head to himself. He needs to find Jason first, needs to get him up onto this rooftop. Tim has been quieter lately, Dick noticed. </p><p> </p><p>A few weeks ago, there’d been an apartment fire. Tim and Dick had managed to get everyone out, even the family that was trapped in the room where the fire started. Tim had carried out their youngest son. </p><p> </p><p>‘<em> Tyler’ </em>he’d said his name was.</p><p> </p><p>Tyler had ended up covered in burns and a few days after that patrol, they got word that he didn’t make it. Tim hasn’t been quite the same since.</p><p> </p><p>He hopes that Jason will manage to cheer the younger boy up. </p><p> </p><p>Leaving Tim on the rooftop to wait is harder than Dick expects. Maybe it has something to do with Robin pulling his stitches while trying to convince Bruce that he was fine, but Dick doesn’t want him to be alone. </p><p> </p><p>“You sure you’ll be okay?” Dick asks. He can see Tim roll his eyes, even with the kid’s domino mask. The full body movement is impressive, really. Dick didn’t know someone could project scorn with their <em> shoulders.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be <em>fine.</em>” Tim sounds about three seconds from anger, with each word that leaves his mouth coated in annoyance. Dick knows that Bruce had been particularly protective for the past few weeks, to the point of being stifling. Dick has been trying to mediate that, taking Tim out on patrol without Batman, driving out for ice cream without warning. Bruce has been trying his best to limit his protectiveness - <em>Dick had called it borderline obssessive </em>- but Dick knows that Tim still needs more space. “Someone’s got to guard the pizza, anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick smiles, recognizing the olive branch for what it is. “I’ll be right back.” Based on the data they gathered - <em> it isn’t stalking </em>- Jason would be coming down the block in the next few minutes, heading to the food truck he favors. </p><p> </p><p>He takes off across the rooftops, careful to not go too far, keeping Tim within earshot. Dick loved being Robin, loved the fighting and the investigating, but the thing that never lost it’s magic was the heights. Bruce was never happy when Dick did this, but sometimes, on an especially successful night, Dick would perch on the edge of a roof, feet tucked under him or dangling over the edge, and hold out his arms. </p><p> </p><p>If a particularly strong wind hit, he would almost feel like he was flying. </p><p> </p><p>Dick pauses above an alley, good mood immediately sucked away by the scuffling below. The streetlight was out, leaving the alleyway too dark for Dick to see from a distance. He doesn’t hear any threats, doesn’t hear any sobbing or pleading, which is a good sign. He fiddles with the settings on his domino mask, vision flickering until it turns green, night vision kicking in. Dick will forever be grateful for Bruce bootlegging any and all useful military tech into their uniforms.</p><p> </p><p>He glances down, preparing to jump, a quip on the tip of his tongue, when the sound of a voice floats up to his ears. A familiar, terrified, voice.</p><p> </p><p>“S-Sorry,” one of the people in the alley - <em> Jason! </em> - chokes out. He’s pinned to the wall by a larger figure, crowded in on all sides. The fear, the <em> acceptance, </em>is too clear in Jason’s voice. </p><p> </p><p>“Damn right, you’re sorry,” the man says, and then he slides a hand up Jason’s shirt, and Dick <em> moves. </em> </p><p> </p><p>The wind roars in the vigilante’s ears as he jumps, white noise drowning out everything but the thundering beat of his heart. The fall, three stories, is nothing compared to other heights that Dick has dropped from, but somehow it feels like it takes <em> hours </em>to hit the ground. </p><p> </p><p>The sound of Jason’s hitched breaths is replaying in his mind, over and over and <em> over </em>again, and all Dick wants to do is beat the man’s face into the ground. Make him feel as helpless and trapped as Jason likely feels. </p><p> </p><p>He hits the concrete in a crouch and feels something pop in his knees. He’ll be feeling that tomorrow but tonight, he couldn’t care less. The man murmurs something else, words too quiet for Dick to hear, but the contempt is all too clear. Nightwing surges forward, teeth gritted and muscles tense. He grabs the back of the man’s jacket, wanting nothing more than to throw him to the ground and - <em> but he can’t. </em> Jason’s safety is the priority.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, Dick rips the man away, relishing the startled scream that breaks from his lips. He throws the man backwards, barely refraining from following, and moves to stand in front of Jason. He can hear Jason’s shuddering breaths, too shallow to be anything but gasps. </p><p> </p><p>For the first time in his life, Dick contemplates crossing that line. </p><p> </p><p>He pictures slamming the man’s face into the brick where he had pinned Jason, grinding his face into the stone. There is no one around to stop Dick if he started throwing punches and just <em> didn’t stop.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Jason shuffles from behind him and Dick is abruptly sucked back to reality. He can’t do that to Jason. He can’t make him watch more violence, not when so much of the younger boy’s life has been filled with it.</p><p> </p><p>But scaring the shit out of someone doesn’t need violence.</p><p> </p><p>Dick bares his teeth, and watches the blood drain from the man’s face. He knows that the expression on his face is everything that criminals never want to see, especially on the face of Nightwing, who is known more for his smiles than his fists.</p><p> </p><p>“Stay <em> the fuck </em>away from him.”</p><p> </p><p>The man’s expression changes, something too close to disgust and confusion on his face. He takes a hesitant step back, even as he begins to reply, as if Nightwing will be sent running after a few blustering sentences. “I didn’t do <em> jackshit. </em> It’s his <em> job, </em>and I paid him to do his goddamn job!”</p><p> </p><p>Dick doesn’t think Bruce would be very disappointed if the man in front of him ended up in the ICU. He pulls his escrimas from his back and lets them flicker to life in his hands, the crackling of electricity filling the air. He feels his face twist into something more monster than human, and snarls. </p><p> </p><p>Dick has heard the rumors of the Bats being something <em> other </em> , something that doesn’t belong here. He knows those rumors are bullshit, spun on fear of the shadows and what lurked in them. But <em> right now </em>, Dick feels as though he could rip the man in front of him to pieces with his bare hands.</p><p> </p><p>The man opens and closes his mouth, gaping like a fish stuck on a beach, gasping for air. Dick steps forward, moving closer, drawing on his years of training himself into a weapon. He moves smoothly, silently, more like a predator stalking its prey than a man walking down an alleyway. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t want to have to look at the person in front of him for a single second longer. <em> Because if he does, he isn’t sure what he’ll do. </em> </p><p> </p><p><em> “Run.” </em>He spits the order out from between gritted teeth, more growl than word. </p><p> </p><p>The man tucks tail and sprints away, skidding as he turns onto the sidewalk. Dick watches him go, a furious kind of satisfaction welling up inside of him. He hopes the man gets hit by a car in his desperate attempt to outrun a wrathful Bat. </p><p> </p><p>Jason moves from behind him, just a rustle of clothing, and Dick tips his head back to stare up at the sky. He knows that the anger in his body language is freaking Jason out, can practically taste the tension in the air, and so he sucks in a breath before letting it out slowly. He wills the fury filling his head away. He can hunt down Jason’s attacker later. Right now, Jason needs him.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Fuck,” </em>he hears from behind him. </p><p> </p><p>Dick slips his escrima sticks back into their holsters as he turns. Jason is watching him with weary eyes, arms wrapped around himself. The vigilante shifts from foot to foot. He doesn’t want to mess up, not with what just happened, but he can tell that Jason doesn’t want, <em> doesn’t need </em>, his pity. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you...okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ amazing right now.” Jason rubs a hand against his cheek, frame shaking so visibly that Dick can see his trembling even through the shadows that surround them. Dick waits and Jason shoots him a glare. His shoulders are tense -  uncomfortable under the vigilante’s gaze. <em> “What.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>“I-uh.” Dick thinks back to the stack of pizzas and Tim, still waiting for them. “Do you want to hang out?” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dick grins at the shock that overtakes the fear on Jason’s face. He shifts, settling his hands on his hips - <em> he needs to put pockets into this suit, he </em> really <em> misses having pockets </em> - and leans forward slightly. “Do you want to hang out? B’s not out tonight-” - <em> more like Alfred and Dick combined forces to ground him </em>- “-and Robin is a few rooftops away. We’ve got snacks?”</p><p> </p><p>“I…” Jason pauses and then bites his lip. “Fine.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thank god.  </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The man’s name is Robert Haynes and he is dropped at the steps of a GPD station with two broken arms, four broken fingers, and a shattered jaw. Dick helpfully pins a baggie with a USB drive inside to Haynes’ coat. </p><p> </p><p>The security footage and recordings are enough to send Haynes to jail for over ten years. <br/><br/></p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh no. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The alarm on the batcomputer is beeping, a constant metronome in the background of chaos. Tim had just gotten back from patrol, grinning from a successful night, when Arkham’s alert hit the news. </p><p> </p><p>He’d swung by Jason’s apartment - <em> had looked through the windows </em>- and hadn’t caught a glimpse of the older boy. Tim had assumed Jason had gone out for a walk, or maybe got another job, but with the Joker out, it isn’t safe to assume.</p><p> </p><p><em> Assume makes an ass out of you and me </em>, Tim sings in his head, his fingers typing away in a matching beat. He knows he should be out there, tracking down the Joker or searching for Jason, but as of his last disastrous solo patrol, he isn’t allowed out alone. </p><p> </p><p>Bruce is still grounded, Alfred’s glare alone keeping him out of the batsuit, although Tim doubts that that’s going to stop him now. Dick is still showering, washing off the grime and blood that came with running through the streets and towering rooftops of Gotham. Hopefully, Dick finishes soon. </p><p> </p><p>Tim shoots another glance at the alert still flashing in the corner of the computer screen. He’s flipping through camera after camera feed, hoping for a glimpse of Jason or a clown mask. The knot of dread in his stomach is growing with every second. The fact that he hasn’t caught even a single frame of footage with Jason in it, at least in the footage of the past few hours, has scenario after scenario running through his head.</p><p> </p><p>Jason getting snatched by the clown is a one in a hundred chance, maybe even less, with Jason’s street skills. The older boy would know better than to be out on the streets while the clown is loose. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But what if he didn’t see the news? What if he was busy while the alert went out and now it’s too late?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tim’s only real comfort is that Joker has a reputation for keeping prisoners alive, at least if he purposely took them. If Jason got taken, he is likely still alive. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But what condition is he in?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The sound of the shower abruptly switches off and Tim resumes his typing, moving the feeds he’s using to search for Jason to one side of the screen, leaving the other side free for any new Joker alerts.</p><p> </p><p>Footsteps echo through the cave as Dick makes his way up to Tim. “So what’s...up…” Dick’s voice trails off as he undoubtably catches sight of the flashing alarm. “<em> Shit.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim’s anxiety spikes at the fear in Dick’s voice. Logically, he knows how dangerous Joker is, knows what he can do, but knowing and hearing Dick, his <em> big brother, </em>sound scared at news of a Joker breakout, are two different things. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you tell Bruce yet?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim swallows and shakes his head. “Haven’t had the chance. Besides,” he says, “Isn’t B grounded?”</p><p> </p><p>Dick laughs, the noise too lighthearted for the situation. There’s a shuffling from behind him, and when Dick replies, his voice is tight. “Yeah, like that’s going to stop him from going after the Joker.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nods to himself. They both know why Bruce had it out for the Joker - <em> his hundreds of victims aside. </em>When Tim had first become Robin, when he’d still been naive and thinking that Robin’s magic would keep him safe, he’d been snatched by the clown. B had found him within hours, but his speed hadn’t been enough to save Tim from a beating via crowbar. </p><p> </p><p>Tim had had to be put into a medical coma while he recovered. </p><p> </p><p>Now, Bruce takes every opportunity to break a few of Joker’s bones. </p><p> </p><p>Tim glances over his shoulder to the sight of Dick wiggling his way into a Nightwing suit. “Isn’t that one all sweaty now?”</p><p> </p><p>The older boy shakes his head. “It’s a new suit, Tim. I’ve got more than one, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim smiles and realizes what they’re doing. Bruce won’t allow them to go after the Joker without him, but sitting and waiting in silence will only make the wait worse. Distracting themselves and each other from the situation is sometimes the only way to get through cases. </p><p> </p><p>He glances back at the screen and frowns. <em> Still no sign of Jason. </em>His chair rocks and he knows without checking that Dick is leaning against the back of it. Tim starts talking before Dick can ask any questions. “I swung by Jason’s earlier, to check in on him. He wasn’t home.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay. Maybe he’s just busy.” Dick responds slowly, as if each word is carefully selected. Tim can’t tell if he’s imagining the undertone of fear in the older boy’s voice.</p><p> </p><p>Tim shakes his head and furiously blinks back the stinging in his eyes. “Yeah, but we’ve been slipping him money. He shouldn’t <em> need </em>to go out right now.”</p><p> </p><p>“The Joker’s out?” Bruce moved so silently from the stairs to the batcomputer that Tim completely missed his approach. He jumps in his seat, one hand automatically coming up to cover his racing heart.</p><p> </p><p>Tim begins to answer, ready to explain how Jason can’t be found anywhere, and <em> what if it’s the Joker, we can’t know for sure it’s not </em>- </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. We got back from patrol to the alert going off,” Dick says, sounding cool and collected, nothing like he did moments ago. Tim knows that the older boy is just slipping into mission mode, pulling himself back from the situation to make it easier to deal with, but that doesn’t stop the pang in his chest. <em> Jason is missing and Dick doesn’t care.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Tim spins around, the chair moving with him. He feels Dick get dislodged from his position against the back of it but doesn’t pause. “I can’t find Jason!”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce blinks, the bright light of the Batcomputer illuminating dark bags and a still healing bruise stretching across his jaw. “What do you mean, you can’t find Jason?”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> mean </em> , I stopped by Jason’s place during patrol and he wasn’t there. And <em> now, </em>I can’t find him on any camera feeds from the last few hours.” Tim sucks in a sharp breath and ignores the trembling that has started to take over his hands. “What if Joker got him?”</p><p> </p><p>Bruce hesitates. “We can’t know that for sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, we can’t know for sure if I’m wrong. And if I’m right, and all you’re doing is telling me I’m <em> not </em> , then Jason is gonna die!” <em> Just like his parents. Just like Dick’s parents. Just like the little kid Tim couldn’t save a few weeks ago. </em> “And it’ll be <em> your </em>fault.”</p><p> </p><p>The older man swallows and runs a tired hand over his face. “Tim. If the Joker has him, then our best chance at saving him is finding the Joker.” Bruce turns away, beginning to make his way to where they keep their suits. “Concentrate your search on clown masks. Check hospitals and amusement parks.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim takes a steadying breath. <em> He can do this. </em>He shoves his fear, his dread, into a tiny box in the corner of his head, and lets Robin’s training take over. “What about Amusement Mile?” He asks, fingers already tapping away on the keyboard.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Dick interjects, before Bruce can respond. “We already did a raid there a few weeks ago. There’s too much surveillance. He’ll want to go to ground for a little bit before resurfacing.”</p><p> </p><p>Tim nods. “He’ll need to regroup, get followers back. So somewhere private but big.” </p><p> </p><p>He pulls up records upon records of abandoned clinics, hospitals and asylums. Reducing the list of locations proves to be not much of a challenge. He can hear movement in the background, knows that Bruce and Dick are suiting up, prepping the Batmobile for potential Joker toxin victims, and doesn’t pause in his frantic work.</p><p> </p><p>Sorting by size and surroundings, Tim manages to reduce the hundreds of names to a set of five. Dick moves to his side, and his fingers move nearly as fast as Tim’s as they sift throught hours of security footage. </p><p> </p><p>For once, Gotham’s reputation for crime is helpful, providing the two vigilantes with more than enough footage to knock names off of Tim’s list of potentials. </p><p> </p><p>“Wait!” Tim says. Dick freezes. “Go back a few seconds on feed H5. Slow it down.”</p><p> </p><p>And they both watch as three men, clown masks covering their faces, haul an unconscious young man who looks very similar to Jason, through a side door into a hospital. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Shit.” </em>Dick lets out a string of swears before turning in the direction that Bruce had gone. “B,” he yells. “We found him! And we found Jason.” Dick glances back at Tim. “Go put your domino mask on and get in the car.”</p><p>The look on Dick’s face promises bloody revenge on Joker and his thugs. Tim grins. “We’ve got a clown to catch.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>The steady sound of breathing fills Jason’s ears. Warm is trapping his legs and it moves with each inhale and exhale. Jason feels as though his brain has been stuffed with cotton, each thought moving through a thick fog. </p><p> </p><p>He blinks - and then blinks again. </p><p> </p><p>The room he’s in is definitely not a hospital room, or his bedroom. He turns his head to the side - eyes running across a blanket that’s probably more expensive than his rent - and then stops. </p><p> </p><p>Next to him, sprawled in a too-fancy armchair in a position that makes Jason’s back ache, is a snoring boy. A snoring boy who is currently holding Jason’s hand. </p><p> </p><p>Jason knows that he didn’t go home with anyone - how could he? But he can’t think of a single other explanation that would explain the black haired socialite, that seemed to know Jason well enough to sit by his bed.</p><p> </p><p>Where the fuck is he, anyway? </p><p> </p><p>He glances down, to where the warmth is still pinning him to the bed, and his eyes catch on yet another black haired socialite kid. Did he get kidnapped? Maybe by some sick fuck with a thing for boys who looked like them? </p><p> </p><p>Why is he here? How did he get here? </p><p> </p><p>Jason tries to replay his memories. He’d been at home, getting his dad a beer - the Joker had gotten out. He’d been stupid and went running for Nightwing and Robin, got snatched, and - and - </p><p> </p><p>Glass grinding into the side of his face - a pair of terrified faces staring down at him - a clown mask - laughter, spilling out of his mouth like a water from a broken dam - the worst pain he has ever felt, fire shooting through his system - a singsong ‘Just kidding’ - </p><p> </p><p>Jason lets out a gasp, the tightness in his chest easing as he starts to suck in frantic inhales and let out ragged exhales. He wonders when he started holding his breath. </p><p> </p><p>How did he - his face. Jason fumbles with the blanket covering him one handed, arm clumsy from sleep and drugs - the only reason why his face didn’t even ache - before finally pulling away from the boy beside him. </p><p> </p><p>He distangles his hand from the other’s grip and begins to run his fingers over his cheek. Jason’s hand shakes so much that for a moment, all he does is graze the gauze with his fingertips. Then he finds the edge of the bandage, secured with tape. Jason sucks in a deep breath - he was so out of it, what if it’s bigger than he thought it was - and traces the edges of the tape around, doing his best to figure out just how fucked up his face is gonna be. </p><p> </p><p>“Jason?”</p><p> </p><p>The sixteen year old’s gaze shoots up at the sound of his name. A man stands in the doorway, a tray held between two hands. He’s huge, taller than Jason, taller than Jason’s dad, and the way he stretches the old shirt he’s wearing shows that he has the strength to match.</p><p> </p><p>If this guy kidnapped Jason, then Jason might as well give up now. He would really rather not get hit by someone with that level of shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>“Who th’ fuck are you?” Jason snarls - or tries to. His mouth is too dry to be helpful, and his attempt at words turns out sounding more like a raspy cough.  </p><p> </p><p>“You should probably drink some water,” the man says. Jason isn’t gonna eat or drink anything he tries to give him. “Here,” he continues, and opens a cabinet before turning to Jason and holding out - a sealed water bottle. </p><p> </p><p>Sure, it’s easy enough to reseal something if you need to, but it’s still a lot of work for drugging someone when you could just stick them with a needle and be done with it. Jason swallows, throat working against nothing, and pulls a hand out from under the covers. </p><p> </p><p>The man cracks open the bottle and Jason watches him carefully, ready for a slick attempt at dumping a powder or another liquid into the water, but as far as Jason can tell, when he hands him the bottle, he didn’t do anything to it.</p><p> </p><p>Jason doubts that. </p><p> </p><p>He probably just resealed it. </p><p> </p><p>But at this point, Jason would rather be able to talk and be drugged, than unable to protest or bargain. </p><p> </p><p>He takes a sip, and then, at the lack of any weird tastes or immediate aftereffects, takes another. The man watches him with an expression Jason doesn’t reckognize on his face. Hopefully, it isn’t some cracked form of lust that Jason just hasn’t seen yet. </p><p> </p><p>When he can swallow without a sip of water, Jason screws the lid back onto the bottle. “So,” he rasps, voice still not quite ready to talk. “Who th’ fuck are you?”</p><p> </p><p>The man’s eyebrows rise and - oh god, he better not be some rich fuck who’s on TV or some shit. If Jason’s trapped in a swanky bedroom with someone who can pay off every witness, then he might end up permanent. </p><p> </p><p>“I-”</p><p> </p><p>“Jason!” The boy who had been laying across his legs shoots upright, with more than one cow lick in his hair. There’s blanket creases imprinted across his cheek and forehead, and Jason chokes back a - slightly hysterical - laugh. “You’re awake!”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh thank god, I thought he was gonna sleep for days.” The older boy’s voice is familiar, pinging in the back of Jason’s head, just like the younger one. </p><p> </p><p>Who - Nightwing and Robin. </p><p> </p><p>If they are - then that means-</p><p> </p><p>Jason squeezes his eyes shut before opening them and - nope, Batman is still there, and both Robin and Nightwing are still staring at him. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” he says, gaze flickering from one vigilante to the next. “Since ya’ll obviously know my name, do I get t’ know yours?”</p><p> </p><p>Batman smiles, the expression small but there. “Bruce Wayne.” </p><p> </p><p>Bruce Wayne?! A small part of his brain shrieks. Batman is Brucie Wayne. Brucie Wayne is the man that ends up on every news station for falling into a cake or spending a fortune on something useless. He’s the person you can rely on to respond to any question a reporter yells with a bright smile and an equally bright answer.</p><p> </p><p>And he is Batman, terror of Gotham and exacter of justice.</p><p> </p><p>All those socialite galas that got attacked by supervillians, and Batman had been there before they ever showed up. No one would ever suspect Brucie Wayne to be the Dark Knight, no matter how much proof someone had. Jason stares at him for another moment before looking between Nightwing and Robin. “ ‘N you are?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tim Drake.” Robin grins. </p><p> </p><p>“Dick Grayson,” Nightwing says, a tilt to his lips that says he knows Jason’s response. </p><p> </p><p>“Ya let your parents call ya Dick?” Who the fuck- “I’m not gonna be responsible for any future jokes.”</p><p> </p><p>Dick laughs. “You can try to come up with some, but I guarantee, I’ve heard them all.”</p><p> </p><p>Yeah, well. We’ll see.</p><p> </p><p>Batman - Bruce Wayne - takes a step forward, hands loose at his sides. Like he knew how much Jason thought him a threat in the beginning. “Jason? I wanted to talk to you about...your situation with home.”</p><p> </p><p>Jason narrows his eyes. How the hell do they know what’s happening at home? He didn’t say anything to Robin or Nightwing, not even after they saved him, over and over and over again. Have they been following him? But - they’re the Bats. Of course they know all about him.</p><p> </p><p>Tim and Dick exchange eye rolls in the corner of Jason’s vision, but all of his attention is locked on Bruce. </p><p> </p><p>“Y-Yeah?” Jason’s voice shakes slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“I was wondering - we were wondering if...you’d like to stay with us?”</p><p> </p><p>Jason blinks. What? He’s tempted to ask Bruce to repeat himself, but the matching puppy eyes that both Robin and Nightwing are shooting him confirms what he heard. “I. What about my mom? She- I can’t leave ‘er alone with my dad. She don’t really know how t’ make money ‘n he just won’t.” </p><p> </p><p>Bruce nods slowly. “We can get her help, maybe in-patient rehab. You’ll be able to visit her until she’s better and then we can go from there.”</p><p> </p><p>The level of certainty in the man’s voice makes Jason want to agree immediately. To have that weight lifted off his shoulders, the one built from years and years of taking care of his parents? It sounds like heaven. </p><p> </p><p>“ ‘N I’ll just stay here? With you?” In a mansion that’s worth more than Jason’s life ten times over? Yeah, why not.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Bruce says. </p><p> </p><p>The hopeful gazes resting on Jason makes him itch. “I-uh. Okay. Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes!” Tim says. “Now I’ll finally have someone to help me beat Dick in Super Smash Bros!”</p><p> </p><p>Jason hopes they know he’s never touched a video game controller for more than a second in his entire life. A hand ruffles his hair and Jason jerks away from the touch. “Watch it, Dickface. We’re gonna crush you.”</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>lmk what you thought!!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Major warnings for attempted and referenced underaged rape, minor minor minor suicidal thoughts, some graphic drugging and fist fighting, as well as drinking</p><p> </p><p>lmk if ya'll want a second chapter where Jason finds out their identities</p><p>also<br/>comments/kudos are *instant* serotonin</p></blockquote></div></div>
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